1 1  I 


y 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


3 


date  stamped  b-low 


LIBRARY, 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIF, 


!<rems  gnb 


POEMS  AND  BALLADS 


GERALD  MASSEY, 


CONTAINING  THE 


BALLAD    OF    BABE    CHRISTABEL. 


PRINTED  FROM  THE  THIRD  LONDON  EDITION, 


Several  New  Poems  Never  Before  Published. 


anil   (£orrut,e&   is   tfot   2tut{jor. 


NEW  YORK: 
J.    0.   DERBY,    119   NASSAU   STREET, 

BOSTON : 
PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON    &   OO. 

CINCINNATI : 

H.    W.    DERBY. 

1864. 


Cnnhnts. 


PREFACE          .............  U 

BIOGRAPHY  OK  TUB  AUTHOR      ..........  xlx 

To  MY  WIFE    .............  25 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BABE  CHRISTABRL  .........  81 

LONG  EXPECTKD       .......       .....46 

WOOED  AND  WON     ............  60 

SONQ        ..............  68 

WKDDED  LOVK         .........       ...64 

THIS  WORLD  is  FULL  or  BBADTT      .........  62 

To  A  BELOVED  ONE         ...........  66 

HOOD,  WHO  BANG  THE  SOSQ  OF  THK  SHIRT        .......  67 

THE  SINGER     .............  71 

ICHABOD          .............  72 

NOT  LOST,  BUT  GONE  BEFORE    ......               ...  76 

THE  CHIVALRT  OF  LABOUR       ..........  76 

THE  CHIVALRY  OF  LABOUR  EXHORTED  TO  THB  WORSHIP  or  BBAUTY         .       .  77 

WHEN  I  COME  HOME        ...........  80 

THE  THREE  SPIRITS         ...........  82 

TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW         ..........  87 

HUSBAND  AND  WIFE       ...........  89 

No  JEWELLED  BEAUTY  ra  MY  LOVE         ........  91 

THE  KINGLIEST  KINGS      ........       ...92 

MARTYRS  FOR  HUNGARY  AND  ROMB.    1860     .......  94 

LOTS  Ms         .............  96 

LOVB'S  FAIRY  Risr,          .......  9g 


X 

S> 


VI 


Page 

NEW  TEAK'S  EVE  IN  EXIIJS 10° 

SONO 10T 

O,  THE  WHITE  SNOW  CROWNS  THE  HlLLS ^® 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FORTY-BIGHT     ....»•• 


THE  PATRIOT 


A  LOVER'S  FANCY 


113 

118 


119 


SONO 

IT  WILL  END  IN  THE  RIGHT 121 

Ciou's  WOULD  is  WORTHY  BETTER  MEM 122 

OLD  ENGLAND 124 

A  POOR  MAN'S  WIFE I26 

LINKS  INSCRIBED  TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE 128 

LOVE 180 

A  SOSG  IN  THR  CITY .       »       .       .  181 

A  WELCOME  TO  Louis  KOSSUTH       .........  134 

ONWARD  AND  SUNWARD  ..........  188 

A  MAIDEN'S  SONO 189 

TIIERK'S  so  DEARTH  OF  KINDNESS 140 

A  LYRIC  OK  LOVE 142 

TUB  FAMIXK-SMITTEN       ......        .....  143 

OUR  FATHERS  ARK  PRAYING  FOR  PACPKK-PAY 147 

A  CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLES 149 

HOPK  ON,  HOPE  EVER      ...........  151 

THE  PEOPLE'S  ADVENT     ...........  152 

KISSES 155 

PEACE 156 

KDBN 160 

THE  MEN  OF  FORTY-BIGHT 162 

OCR  LAND 164 

SWEET  SPIRIT  OF  MY  LOVK       ..........  166 

THE  BRIDAL 168 

A  GLIMPSE  OK  AULD  LANQ-STKB     .........  175 

Sosa  OF  THE  RED  REPUBLICAN         .........  181 

THE  PATRIOT  TO  ins  BRIDE 183 

ANATHEMA  MARESTHA 184 

THE  LORDS  OF  LAND  AND  MONEY 186 

LlTTLK  LlLYBELL 188 

TUB  GOLDKN  WKDDINC- RING    .        .        .  190 


Vll 


Page 

THE  UNBELOVED 192 

DESERTED         ..                 ..........  194 

LOVE  IN  IDLENESS 195 

DOWN  IN  AUSTRALIA        ...........  197 

THE  EXILE  TO  HIS  COUNTRY 199 

THE  DESERTER  FROM  THE  CAUSE       .........  202 

THEY  ARE  BUT  GIANTS  WHILE  WE  KNSSL          .......  208 

THE  CRT  OF  THE  UNEMPLOYED          .........  207 

1  Lova  MY  LOVE,  AND  MY  LOVE  LOVES  ME       .......  209 

THE  THREE  VOICES 211 

THE  WORKER 214 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  THE  PEOPLE 215 

PRESS  ON 216 

MERRY  CHRISTMAS  EVE 218 

ALL'S  RIGHT  WITH  THE  WORLD        .........  220 

BRIDAL  SONS 222 

A  CHAUNT 223 

SONG 224 

ENGLAND  GOES  TO  BATTLE  226 


THIRD      EDITION 


I  DO  not  like  to  write  a  Preface.  I  do  not  think  a  volume 
of  verse  should  need  one.  But,  as  my  Book  has  reached  a 
Third  Edition,  and  as  almost  as  much  has  been  said  about 
myself  as  about  my  Book,  perhaps  I  may  be  excused,  even  by 
the  Preface-hater,  if  I  do  take  this  opportunity  of  saying  a 
few  words.  I  have  been  considerably  censured  for  the  poli- 
tical opinions  which  it  contains — as  I  expected  to  bo.  Before 
printing,  I  was  advised  not  to  include  the  political  pieces,  as, 
it  was  urged,  they  would  prove  an  obstacle  to  the  success  of 
my  Poetry,  and  close  the  drawing-room  door  against  me. 
And  if  I  had  looked  on  the  success  of  my  Book  in  a  poetical 
light  alone,  I  should  not  have  printed  the  greater  portion  of 

1* 


the  political  verses.  But  that  was  not  the  pole  point  of  view. 
Those  verses  do  not  express  what  I  think  and  feel  now,  since 
they  were  written  some  five  or  six  years  ago :  yet  they  express 
what  I  thought  and  felt  then,  aud  what  thousands  beside  inu 
have  thought  and  felt,  and  what  thousands  still  think  and 
feel.  They  were  the  outcome  of  a  peculiar  and  marked  expe- 
rience. I  printed  the  "  Memoir,"  so  that  they  might  be  read 
in  the  light,  or  gloom,  of  that  experience,  and  the  Book  con- 
tain its  own  excuse.  They  have  not  read  me  aright,  who  have 
not  so  interpreted  it.  I  have  been  blamed  for  the  rebellious 
feelings  to  which  the  political  pieces  give  utterance;  but  they 
were  perfectly  natural  under  the  circumstances.  Indeed,  I 
look  upon  those  same  rebellious  feelings  as  my  very  deliver- 
ance from  a  fatal  slough.  There  are  conditions  in  which 
many  of  the  poor  exist,  where  humanity  must  be  either  rebel 
or  slave.  For  the  slave,  degradation  and  moral  death  are 
certain  ;  but  for  the  rebel  there  is  always  a  chance  of  becom- 
ing conqueror ;  and  the  force  to  resist  is  far  better  than  the 
faculty  to  succumb. 

"It  is  not,"  says  he,  "  that  I  seek  to  sow  dissension  between 
class  and  class,  or  fling  firebrands  among  the  combustibles  of 
society ;  for  when  I  smite  the  hearts  of  my  fellows,  I  would 
rather  they  should  gush  with  the  healing  waters  of  love,  than 
with  the  fearful  fires  of  hatred.  I  yearn  to  raise  them  into 


XI 


loveable  beings.  I  would  kindle  in  the  hearts  of  the  masses 
a  sense  of  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  universe,  call  forth 
the  lineaments  of  Divinity  in  their  poor  worn  faces,  give  them 
glimpses  of  the  grace  and  glory  of  Love  and  the  marvellous 
significance  of  Life,  and  elevate  the  standard  of  Humanity  for 
all.  But  strange  wrongs  are  daily  done  in  the  land,  bitter 
feelings  are  felt,  and  wild  words  will  be  spoken.  It  was  not 
for  myself  alone  that  I  wrote  these  things  :  it  was  always  the 
condition  of  others  that  so  often  made  the  mist  rise  up  and 
cloud  my  vision.  Nor  was  it  for  myself  that  I  have  uncur- 
tained some  scenes  of  my  life  to  the  public  gaze,  but  as  an 
illustration  of  the  lives  of  others,  who  suffer  and  toil  on, 
'die,  and  make  no  sign;'  and  because  one's  own  personal 
experience  is  of  more  value  than  that  of  others  taken  upon 
hearsay." 

So  I  keep  my  political  verses  as  memorials  of  my  past,  as 
one  might  keep  some  worn-oxit  garment  because  he  had  passed 
through  the  furnace  in  it,  nothing  doubting  that  in  the  future 
they  will  often  prove  my  passport  to  the  hearts  and  homes  of 
thousands  of  the  poor,  when  the  minstrel  comes  to  their  door 
with  something  better  to  bring  them.  They  will  know  that 
I  have  suffered  their  sufferings,  wept  their  tears,  thought  their 
thought*,  and  felt  their  feelings ;  and  they  will  trust  me, 

I  have  been  congratulated  by  some  correspondents  on  the 


uses  of  suffering,  and  the  riches  I  have  wrung  from  Poverty : 
as  though  it  were  a  blessed  thing  to  be  born  in  the  condition 
in  which  I  was,  and  surrounded  with  untoward  circumstances 
as  I  have  been.  My  experience  tells  mo  that  Poverty  is  ini- 
mical to  the  development  of  Humanity's  noblest  attributes. 
Poverty  is  a  never-ceasing  struggle  for  the  means  of  living, 
and  it  makes  one  hard  and  selfish.  To  be  sure,  noble  lives 
have  been  wrought  out  in  the  sternest  poverty.  Many  such 
are  being  wrought  out  now,  by  the  unknown  heroes  and  mar- 
tyrs of  the  Poor.  I  have  known  men  and  women  in  the  very 
worst  circumstances,  to  whom  heroism  seemed  a  heritage,  and 
to  bo  noble  a  natural  way  of  living.  But  they  were  so  in 
epitc  of  their  poverty,  not  because  of  it.  What  they  might 
have  been  if  the  world  had  dune  better  by  them,  I  cannot 
tell;  but  if  their  minds  had  been  enriched  by  culture,  the 
world  had  been  the  gainer.  When  Christ  said  "Blessed  are 
they  who  suffer,"  he  did  not  speak  of  those  who  suffer  from 
want  and  hunger,  and  who  always  see  the  Bastile  looming  up 
and  blotting  out  the  sky  of  their  future.  Such  suffering  bru- 
talizes. True  natures  ripen  and  strengthen  in  suffering;  but, 
it  is  that  suffering  which  chastens  and  ennobles — that  which 
clears  the  spiritual  sight — not  the  anxiety  lest  work  should 
fail,  and  the  want  of  daily  bread.  The  beauty  of  Suffering  is 
not  to  be  read  in  (he  face  of  Hunger. 


Above  all,  Poverty  is  a  cold  place  to  write  Poetry  in.  It 
is  not  attractive  to  poetical  influences.  The  Muses  do  not  liko 
entertainment  which  is  not  fit  for  man  or  beast.  Nor  do  the 
best  fruits  of  Poetry  ripen  in  the  rain  and  shade  and  wind 
alone  :  they  want  sunshine,  warmth,  and  the  open  sky.  And 
should  the  heart  of  a  poor  man  break  into  song,  it  Ls  likely 
that  his  poverty  may  turn  into  hailstones  that  which  might 
have  fallen  on  the  world  in  fructifying  rain.  A  poor  man, 
fighting  his  battle  of  life,  has  little  time  for  the  rapture  of 
repose  which  Poetry  demands.  He  cannot  take  Poetry,  like 
a  Bride,  to  his  heart  and  home,  and  devote  a  life  to  her  ser- 
vice. He  can  only  keep  some  innermost  chamber  of  his  heart 
sacred  for  her,  from  whence  he  gets  occasional  glimpses  of 
her  wondrous  beauty,  when  he  can  steal  away  from  the  out- 
ward strife,  like  some  child  who  has  found  a  treasure,  and 
steals  aside  to  look  on  it  in  secret  and  alone,  lest  rude  and  im- 
portunate companions  should  snatch  it  from  the  possessor's 
hands.  Considering  all  things,  it  may  appear  madness  for  a 
poor  man  to  attempt  Poetry  in  the  face  of  the  barriers  that 
Kin-round  him.  So  many  hearts  have  been  broken,  so  many 
lives  have  been  wasted,  so  many  lions  are  in  the  way  of  the 
Gate  Beautiful,  and  so  many  wrecks  lie  by  the  path !  And  so 
it  is — a  diseased  madness,  or  a  divine  one.  If  the  disease,  then 
there  is  no  help  for  a  man :  if  the  divine,  then  there  is  no 
binder  an  oe  for  him. 


XIV 


Who  would  not  pity  the  poor  versifier  at  the  outset  of  his 
career  ?  But  who  would  not  also  rejoice  with  him  in  the  end, 
when  the  world  crowns  him  a  Poet  with  paeans  of  acclaim  ? 
And,  in  spite  of  all  things,  there  will  be  Poetry  in  the  midst 
of  poverty.  Even  as  there  is  scarcely  a  space  in  the  world  so 
barren  but  some  plot  of  natural  richness  will  be  running  all 
to  flowers— some  type  of  loveliness  will  be  starting  up  from 
Earth's  inner  Sea  of  Beauty,  even  in  waste  and  wilderness, 
on  rock  and  ruin,  in  Alpine  snows  and  sandy  solitudes — so  is 
it  with  Poetry,  the  flower  of  Humanity.  It  will  continually 
be  springing,  in  its  own  natural  way,  in  the  most  bleak  and 
barren  bye-ways  of  the  world,  as  well  as  in  the  richest  and 
most  cultivated  pastures.  The  winds  of  heaven,  or  the  birds 
of  God,  will  drop  the  seed,  and  the  flower  will  follow,  even 
though  sown  atnid  the  bushes  and  brambles  of  the  obscurest 
hamlet,  or  in  the  crevices  of  the  city  pavement.  Not  that 
the  wilderness,  or  the  rock,  or  the  snows,  are  the  fittest  places 
to  rear  flowers  of  most  exquisite  fragrance  and  beauty ; 
neither  are  Poverty  and  Penury,  with  their  hell  of  torture, 
and  daily  wrestle  with  grim  Death,  the  fittest  soil  to  grow 
and  perfect  the  flower  of  Poetry.  The  greatest  original  Genius 
can  only  develop  itself  according  to  the  circumstances  which 
environ  it.  It  needs  food  to  nourish  it,  and  time  and  oppor- 
tunity to  unfold  it.  If  it  lack  these,  it  must  remain  dwarfed 
and  stunted,  and  perhaps  wither  and  die. 


Besides,  it  is  not  while  the  fight  is  raging,  and  the  struggle 
is  sore,  that  the  Poet  can  sing.  He  must  first  do  battle  and 
overcome,  climb  from  the  stir  and  strife,  and  be  able  to  watch 
from  his  mountain  where  he  dwells  apart.  The  fullest  and 
rarest  streams  of  Poetry  only  flow  through  a  mind  at  peace. 
The  mirror  of  the  Poet's  soul  must  be  calm  and  clear :  else  it 
will  give  forth  distorted  reflections  and  false  imaginings. 

Had  I  known,  when  I  began  to  write  verses,  what  I  know 
now,  I  think  I  should  have  been  intimidated,  and  not  have 
begun  at  all.  So  many  and  so  glorious  are  the  luminaries 
already  up  and  shining,  that  one  would  pause  before  hoisting 
a  rushlight.  But  I  was  ignorant  of  these  things.  And  as  I 
have  begun,  and  conquered  some  preliminary  difficulties, — as 
I  have  been  sweated  down  to  the  proper  jockey-weight  at 
which  I  can  ride  Pegasus  with  little  danger  of  spraining  his 
wings, — and  as  a  purpose  has  gradually  and  unconsciously 
grown  upon  me,  I  dare  say  I  shall  go  on,  making  the  best  of 
my  limited  materials,  with  the  view  of  writing  some  songs 
that  may  become  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the  people,  cheering 
them  in  their  sorrows,  voicing  their  aspirations,  lighting  them 
on  the  way  up  which  they  are  groping  darkly  after  better 
things,  and  saluting  their  triumphs  with  hymns  of  victory ! 

I  cannot  conclude  without  thanking  those  Critics  who  have 
given  me  so  generous  a  welcome.  And  I  would  also  thank 


XVI 


those  who  have  not  spared  my  faults,  or  dwelt  tenderly  on  my 
failings.  They,  also,  have  done  me  good,  and  I  am  grateful 
fur  it.  Friendly  praise  is  somewhat  like  a  warm  bath, — apt 
to  enervate,  especially  if  we  stay  in  too  long;  but  friendly 
censure  is  like  a  cold  bath,  bracing  and  healthful,  though  we 
are  always  glad  to  get  out  of  it.  Some  of  the  Critics  have 
called  me  a  "  Poet ;"  but  that  word  is  much  too  lightly 
spoken,  much  too  freely  bandied  about.  I  know  what  a  Poet 
is  too  well  to  fancy  that  I  am  one  yet.  It  is  a  high  standard 
that  I  set  up  myself,  and  I  do  not  ask  it  to  be  lowered  to 
reach  my  stature ;  nor  would  I  have  the  Poet's  awful  crown 
diminished  to  mete  my  lesser  brow.  I  may  have  that  some- 
thing within  which  kindles  flame-like  at  the  breath  of  Love, 
or  mounts  into  song  in  the  presence  of  Beauty ;  but  alas ! 
mine  is  a  "jarring  lyre."  If  I  were  a  Critic,  I  should  be 
savagely  severe  on  this  subject.  The  dearth  of  Poetry  should 
be  great  in  a  country  where  we  hail  as  Poets  such  as  have 
been  crowned  of  late. 

For  myself,  I  have  only  entered  the  lists,  and  inscribed  my 
name:  the  race  has  yet  to  be  run.  Whether  I  shall  run  it, 
and  win  the  Poet's  crown,  or  not,  time  alone  will  prove,  and 
not  the  prediction  of  friend  or  foe.  The  crowns  of  Poetry 
are  not  in  the  keeping  of  Critics.  There  have  been  many  who 
have  given  some  sign  of  promise,— just  set  a  rainbow  of  hope 


XV 11 


in  the  dark  cloud  of  their  life, — and  never  fulfilled  their 
promise ;  and  the  world  has  wondered  why.  But  it  might 
not  have  been  matter  of  wonder  if  the  world  could  have  read 
what  was  written  behind  the  cloud.  Others,  again,  are  song- 
ful in  youth,  like  the  nightingales  in  Spring,  who  soon  ceaso 
to  sing,  because  they  have  to  build  nests,  rear  their  young,  and 
provide  for  them ;  and  so  the  songs  grow  silent, — the  heart 
is  full  of  cares,  and  the  dreamer  has  no  time  to  dream.  I  hope 
that  my  future  holds  some  happier  fate.  I  think  there  is  a 
work  for  me  to  do,  and  I  trust  to  accomplish  it. 

GERALD  MASSEY. 

April,  1854. 


38ingrn]fjiu  llutrlj. 


THE  reader  of  the  miscellaneous  literature  of  the  day 
has  doubtless  met  with  the  name  of  Gerald  Massey  attached 
to  poems  strikingly  beautiful  in  language  and  intensely 
passionate  in  feeling.  These  poems  have  heretofore  been 
published  chiefly  in  journals  which  are  yet  in  a  great  mea- 
sure tabooed  in  what  are  regarded  as  "  respectable  literary 
circles."  The  "  Spirit  of  Freedom,"  a  cheap  journal,  started 
in  1849,  and  written  exclusively  by  working-men,  con- 
tained a  large  number  of  them  ;  and  others  have  since 
appeared  in  the  "  Christian  Socialist,"  a  cheap  journal 
conducted  by  Clergymen  of  the  Church  of  England  ;  and 
many  others  also,  of  great  beauty,  have  been  published 
in  the  "  Leader,"  a  remarkably  able  journal  conducted 
by  Thornton  Hunt,  the  son  of  the  poet. 

You  see  at  once  that  the  writer  is  a  man  of  vivid  genius, 
and  is  full  of  the  true  poetic  fire.  Some  of  his  earlier 
pieces  are  indignant  expostulation's  with  society  at  the 


XX 


wrongs  of  suffering  humanity  ;  passionate  protests  against 
those  hideous  disparities  of  life  which  meet  our  eye  on 
every  side  ;  against  power  wrongfully  used  ;  against  fraud 
and  oppression  in  their  more  rampant  forms  ;  mingled 
with  appeals  to  the  higher  influences  of  knowledge,  justice, 
mercy,  truth,  and  love.  It  is  always  thus  with  the  poet 
who  has  worked  his  way  to  the  light  through  darkness, 
suffering,  and  toil.  Give  a  poor  down-trodden  man  cul- 
ture, and,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  you  only  increase  his 
sensitiveness  to  pain  :  you  agonize  him  with  the  sight  of 
pleasures  which  are  to  him  forbidden  ;  you  quicken  his 
sense  of  despair  at  the  frightful  inequalities  of  the  human 
lot.  There  are  thousands  of  noble  natures,  with  minds 
which,  under  better  circumstances,  would  have  blessed 
and  glorified  their  race,  who  have  been  for  ever  blasted — 
crushed  into  the  mire — or  condemned  to  courses  of  despe- 
rate guilt ! — for  one  who,  like  Gerald  Massey,  has  nobly 
risen  above  his  trials  and  temptations,  and  triumphed  over 
them.  And  when  such  a  man  does  find  a  voice,  surely 
"  rose-water  "  verses  and  "  hot-pressed "  sonnets  are  not 
to  be  expected  of  him  :  such  things  are  not  by  any  means 
the  natural  products  of  a  life  of  desperate  struggling  with 
poverty.  When  the  self-risen  and  self-educated  man 
speaks  and  writes  now-a-days,  it  is  of  the  subjects  nearest 
to  his  heart.  Literature  is  not  a  mere  intelligent  epicurism 
with  men  who  have  suffered  and  grown  wise,  but  a  real, 
earnest,  passionate,  vehement,  living  thing — a  power  to 
move  others,  a  means  to  elevate  themselves,  and  to  eman- 


cipate  their  order.  This  is  a  marked  peculiarity  of  our  times  ; 
knowledge  is  now  more  than  ever  regarded  as  a  power  to 
elevate,  not  merely  individuals,  but  classes.  Hence  the 
most  intelligent  of  working-men  at  this  day  are  intensely 
political  :  we  merely  state  this  as  a  fact  not  to  be  dis- 
puted. In  former  times,  when  literature  was  regarded 
mainly  in  the  light  of  a  rich  man's  luxury,  poets  who  rose 
out  of  the  working-class  sung  as  their  patrons  wished. 
Bloomfield  and  Clare  sang  of  the  quiet  beauty  of  rural 
life,  and  painted  pictures  of  evening  skies,  purling  brooks, 
and  grassy  meads.  Burns  could  with  difficulty  repress 
the  "  Jacobin"  spirit  which  burned  within  him  ;  and  yet 
even  he  was  rarely,  if  ever,  political  in  his  tone.  His 
strongest  verses,  having  a  political  bearing,  were  those 
addressed  to  the  Scotch  Representatives  in  reference  to  the 
Excise  regulations  as  to  the  distillation  of  whiskey.  But 
come  down  to  our  own  day,  and  mark  the  difference  : 
Elliot,  Nichol,  Bamford,  the  author  of  "  Ernest,"  the 
Chartist  Epic,  Davisthe  "  Belfast  Man,"  De  Jean,  Massey, 
and  many  others,  are  intensely  political ;  and  they  defend 
themselves  for  their  selection  of  subjects  as  Elliot  did, 
when  he  said,  "  Poetry  is  impassioned  truth  ;  and  why 
should  we  not  utter  it  in  the  shape  that  touches  our  con- 
dition the  mostly  closely — the  political  ?"  But  how  it 
happens  that  the  writings  of  working-men  now-a-days  so 
generally  assume  the  political  tone,  will  be  best  ascer- 
tained from  the  following  sketch  of  the  life  of  Gerald 
Masse v  : — 


xxu 


He  was  born  in  May,  1828,  and  is,  therefore,  barely 
twenty-five  years  of  age.  He  first  saw  the  light  in  a 
little  stone  hut  near  Tring,  in  Herts,  one  of  those  mise- 
rable abodes  in  which  so  many  of  our  happy  peasantry— 
their  country's  pride  ! — are  condemned  to  live  and  die. 
One  shilling  a  week  was  the  rent  of  this  hovel,  the  roof 
of  which  was  so  low  that  a  man  could  not  stand  upright 
in  it.  Massey's  father  was,  and  still  is,  a  canal  boatman, 
earning  the  wage  of  ten  shillings  a  week.  Like  most 
other  peasants  in  this  "highly-favoured  Christian  coun- 
try," he  has  had  no  opportunities  of  education,  and  never 
could  write  his  own  name.  But  Gerald  Massey  was  blessed 
in  his  mother,  from  whom  he  derived  a  finely-organized 
brain  and  a  susceptible  temperament.  Though  quite 
illiterate,  like  her  husband,  she  had  a  firm,  free  spirit — 
it's  broken  now  ! — a  tender  yet  courageous  heart,  and  a 
pride  of  honest  poverty  which  she  never  ceased  to  cherish. 
But  she  needed  all  her  strength  and  courage  to  bear  up 
under  the  privations  of  her  lot.  Sometimes  the  husband 
fell  out  of  work  ;  and  there  was  no  bread  in  the  cupboard, 
except  what  was  purchased  by  the  labour  of  the  elder 
children,  some  of  whom  were  early  sent  to  work  in  the 
neighbouring  silk-mill.  Disease,  too,  often  fell  upon  the 
family,  cooped  up  in  that  unwholesome  hovel :  indeed,  the 
wonder  is,  not  that  our  peasantry  should  be  diseased,  and 
grow  old  and  haggard  before  their  time,  but  that  they 
should  exist  at  all  in  such  lazar-houses  and  cesspools. 

None  of  the  children  of  this  poor  family  were  educated. 


XX111 


iii  the  common  acceptance  of  the  term.  Several  of  them 
were  sent  for  a  short  time  to  a  penny  school,  where  the 
teacher  and  the  taught  were  about  on  a  par  ;  but  so  soon 
as  they  were  of  age  to  work,  the  children  were  sent  to 
the  silk-mill.  The  poor  cannot  afford  to  keep  their 
children  at  school,  if  they  are  of  an  age  to  work  and  earn 
money.  They  must  help  to  eke  out  their  parents'  slender 
gains,  even  though  it  be  only  by  a  few  pence  weekly.  So, 
at  eight  years  of  age,  Gerald  Massey  went  into  the  silk- 
manufactory,  rising  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
toiling  there  till  half-past  six  in  the  evening  ;  up  in  the 
grey  dawn,  or  in  the  winter  before  the  daylight,  and 
trudging  to  the  factory  through  the  wind  or  in  the  snow  ; 
seeing  the  sun  only  through  the  factory  windows  ;  breath- 
ing an  atmosphere  laden  with  rank  oily  vapour,  his  ears 
deafened  by  the  roar  of  incessant  wheels  ; — 

11  Still  all  the  day  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark  ; 

And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  calling  sunward, 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark." 

What  a  life  for  a  child  !  What  a  substitute  for  tender 
prattle,  for  childish  glee,  for  youthful  playtime  !  Then 
home  shivering  under  the  cold,  starless  sky,  on  Saturday 
nights,  with  9^.,  Is.,  or  Is.  3d.,  for  the  whole  week's 
work  ;  for  such  were  the  respective  amounts  of  the  wages 
earned  by  the  child  labour  of  Gerald  Massey. 


XXIV 


But  the  mill  was  burned  down,  and  the  children  held 
jubilee  over  it.  The  boy  stood  for  twelve  hours  in  the 
wind,  and  sleet,  and  mud,  rejoicing  in  the  conflagration 
which  thus  liberated  him.  Who  can  wonder  at  this  ? 
Then  he  went  to  straw-plaiting,— as  toilsome,  and  per- 
haps, more  unwholesome  than  factory  work.  Without 
exercise,  in  a  marshy  district,  the  plaiters  were  constantly 
having  racking  attacks  of  ague.  The  boy  had  the  disease 
for  three  years,  ending  with  tertian  ague.  Sometimes 
four  of  the  family,  and  the  mother,  lay  ill  at  one  time,  all 
crying  with  thirst,  with  no  one  to  give  them  drink,  and 
each  too  weak  to  help  the  other.  How  little  do  we  know 
of  the  sufferings  endured  by  the  poor  and  struggling 
classes  of  our  population,  especially  in  our  rural  districts  ! 
No  press  echoes  their  wants,  or  records  their  sufferings ; 
and  they  live  almost  as  unknown  to  us  as  if  they  were  the 
inhabitants  of  some  undiscovered  country. 

And  now  take,  as  an  illustration,  the  child-life  of 
Gerald  Massey.  "  Having  had  to  earn  my  own  dear 
bread,"  he  says,  "  by  the  eternal  cheapening  of  flesh  and 
blood  thus  early,  I  never  knew  what  childhood  meant. 
I  had  no  childhood.  Ever  since  I  can  remember,  I  have 
had  the  aching  fear  of  want,  throbbing  heart  and  brow 
The  currents  of  my  life  were  early  poisoned,  and  few, 
methinks,  would  pass  unscathed  through  the  scenes  and 
circumstances  in  which  I  have  lived  ;  none,  if  they  were  as 
curious  and  precocious  as  1  was.  The  child  comes  into 
the  world  like  a  new  roiu  with  the  stump  of  God  upon  it ; 


and  in  like  manner  as  the  Jews  sweat  down  sovereigns,  by 
hustling  them  in  a  bag  to  get  gold-dust  out  them,  so  is 
the  poor  man's  child  hustled  and  sweated  down  in  this  bag 
of  society  to  get  wealth  out  of  it ;  and  even  as  the  impress 
of  the  Queen  is  effaced  by  the  Jewish  process,  so  is  the 
image  of  God  worn  from  heart  and  brow,  and  day  by  day 
the  child  recedes  devil-ward.  I  look  back  now  with  won- 
der, not  that  so  few  escape,  but  that  any  escape  at  all,  to 
win  a  nobler  growth  for  their  humanity.  So  blighting  are 
the  influences  which  surround  thousands  in  early  life,  to 
which  I  can  bear  such  bitter  testimony." 

And  how  fared  the  growth  of  this  child's  mind  the  while  ? 
Thanks  to  the  care  of  his  mother,  who  had  sent  him  to  the 
penny  school,  he  had  learnt  to  read,  and  the  desire  to  read 
had  been  awakened.  Books,  however,  were  very  scarce. 
The  Bible  and  Bunyan  were  the  principal ;  he  committed 
many  chapters  of  the  former  to  memory,  and  accepted  all 
Bunyan's  allegory  as  bona  fide  history.  Afterwards  he 
obtained  access  to  "Robinson  Crusoe"  and  a  few  Wes- 
leyan  tracts  left  at  the  cottage.  These  constituted  his 
sole  reading,  until  he  came  up  to  London,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  as  an  errand-boy  ;  and  now,  for  the  first  time  in 
Ids  life,  he  met  with  plenty  of  books,  reading  all  that  came 
in  his  way,  from  "  Lloyd's  Penny  Times,"  to  Cobbett's 
Works,  "  French  without  a  Master,"  together  with  English, 
Roman,  and  Grecian  history.  A  ravishing  awakenmeiit 
ensued, — the  delightful  sense  of  growing  knowledge, — the 
charm  of  new  thought,— the  wonders  of  a  new  world. 


XXVI 


"  Till  then,"  he  says,  "  I  had  often  wondered  why  I  lived 
at  all, — whether 

'It  was  not  better  not  to  be, 
I  was  so  full  of  misery.' 

Now  I  began  to  think  that  the  crown  of  all  desire,  and  the 
sum  of  all  existence,  was  to  read  and  get  knowledge. 
Read  !  read  !  read !  I  used  to  read  at  all  possible  times, 
and  in  all  possible  places  ;  up  in  bed  till  two  or  three  iu 
the  morning, — nothing  daunted  by  once  setting  the  bed  on 
fire.  Greatly  indebted  was  I  also  to  the  bookstalls,  where 
I  have  read  a  great  deal,  often  folding  a  leaf  in  a  book,  and 
returning  the  next  day  to  continue  the  subject  ;  but  some- 
times the  book  was  gone,  and  then  great  was  my  grief  ! 
When  out  of  a  situation,  I  have  often  gone  without  a  meal 
to  purchase  a  book.  Until  I  fell  in  love,  and  began  to 
rhyme  as  a  matter  of  consequence,  1  never  had  the  least 
predilection  for  poetry.  In  fact,  I  always  eschewed  it  ;  if 
I  ever  met  with  any,  I  instantly  skipped  it  over,  and  passed 
on,  as  one  does  with  the  description  of  scenery,  &c.,  in  a 
novel.  I  always  loved  the  birds  and  flowers,  the  woods 
and  the  stars  ;  I  felt  delight  in  being  alone  in  a  summer- 
wood,  with  song,  like  a  spirit,  in  the  trees,  and  the  golden 
sun-bursts  glinting  through  the  verdurous  roof ;  and  was 
conscious  of  a  mysterious  creeping  of  the  blood,  and  tin- 
gling of  the  nerves,  when  standing  alone*  in  the  starry  mid- 
night, as  in  God's  own  presence-chamber.  But  until  I 
began  to  rhyme,  I  cared  nothing  for  written  poetry.  The 


XXVH 

first  verses  I  ever  made  were  upou  '  Hope,'  when  I  was 
utterly  hopeless  ;  and  after  I  had  begun,  I  never  ceased  for 
about  four  years,  at  the  end  of  which  time  I  rushed  into 
print." 

There  was,  of  course,  crudeness  both  of  thought  and 
expression  in  the  first  verses  of  the  poet,  which  were  pub- 
lished in  a  provincial  paper.  But  there  were  nerve,  rhythm, 
and  poetry  ;  the  burthen  of  the  song  was,  "  At  eventime  it 
shall  be  light."  The  leading  idea  of  the  poem  was  the 
power  of  knowledge,  virtue,  and  temperance,  to  elevate  the 
condition  of  the  poor, — a  noble  idea,  truly.  Shortly  after 
he  was  encouraged  to  print  a  shilling  volume  of  "  Poems 
and  Chansons,"  in  his  native  town  of  Tring,  of  which  some 
250  copies  were  sold.  Of  his  latter  poems  we  shall  after- 
wards speak. 

But  a  new  power  was  now  working  upon  his  nature,  as 
might  have  been  expected, — the  power  of  opinion,  as 
expressed  in  books,  and  in  the  discussions  of  his  fellow- 
workers. 

"As  an  errand-boy,"  he  says,  "  I  had  of  course,  many 
hardships  to  undergo,  and  to  bear  with  much  tyranny  ;  and 
that  led  me  into  reasoning  upon  men  and  things,  the  causes 
of  misery,  the  anomalies  of  our  societary  state,  politics,  &c., 
and  the  circle  of  my  being  rapidly  out-surged.  New 
power  came  to  me  with  all  that  I  saw,  and  thought,  and 
read.  I  studied  political  works, — such  as  Paine,  Volney, 
Howitt,  Louis  Blanc,  &c.,  which  gave  me  another  element 
to  mould  into  my  verse,  though  I  am  convinced  that  a 


XXV  HI 


poet  must  sacrifice  much  if  he  write  party-political  poetry. 
His  politics  must  be  above  the  pinnacle  of  party  zeal ;  the 
politics  of  eternal  truth,  right,  and  justice.  He  must  not 
waste  a  life  on  what  to-morrow  may  prove  to  have  been 
merely  the  question  of  a  day.  The  French  Revolution  of 
1848  had  the  greatest  effect  on  me  of  any  circumstance 
connected  with  my  own  life.  It  was  scarred  and  blood- 
burnt  into  the  very  core  of  my  being.  This  little  volume 
of  mine  is  the  fruit  thereof." 

But,  meanwhile,  he  had  been  engaged  in  other  literary 
work.  Full  of  new  thoughts,  and  bursting  with  aspira- 
tions of  freedom,  he  started,  in  April,  1849,  a  cheap 
journal,  written  entirely  by  working-men,  entitled,  "  The 
Spirit  of  Freedom  :"  it  was  full  of  fiery  earnestness,  and 
half  of  its  weekly  contents  were  supplied  by  Gerald  Mas- 
scy  himself,  who  acted  as  editor.  It  cost  him  five  situa- 
tions during  the  period  of  eleven  months, — twice  because  he 
was  detected  burning  candle  far  on  into  the  night,  and 
three  times  because  of  the  tone  of  the  opinions  to  which 
he  gave  utterance.  The  French  Revolution  of  1848 
having,  amongst  its  other  issues,  kindled  the  zeal  of  the 
working-men  in  this  country  in  the  cause  of  association, 
Gerald  Massey  eagerly  joined  them,  and  he  has  been 
recently  instrumental  in  giving  some  impetus  to  that 
praiseworthy  movement, — the  object  of  which  is  to  per- 
manently elevate  the  condition  of  the  producing  classes, 
by  advancing  them  to  the  status  of  capitalists  as  well  as 
labourers. 


XXIX 


A  word  or  two  as  to  Gerald  Massey's  recent  poetry. 
Bear  in  mind  tliat  he  is  yet  but  a  youth  ; — at  twenty- three 
a  man  can  scarcely  be  said  fairly  to  have  entered  his  man- 
hood ;  and  yet,  if  we  except  Robert  ]STichol,  who  died  at 
twenty-four,  we  know  of  no  English  poet  of  his  class,  who 
lias  done  any  thing  to  compare  with  him.  Some  of  his 
most  beautiful  pieces  originally  appeared  in  the  columns 
of  the  "  Leader."  They  give  you  the  idea  of  a  practised 
hand — one  who  has  reached  the  full  prime  of  his  poetic 
manhood.  Take,  for  instance,  his  "  Lyrics  of  Love,"  so 
full  of  beauty  and  tenderness.  Nor  are  his  "  Songs  of 
Progress "  less  full  of  poetic  power  and  beauty. 

Gerald  Massey  is  a  teacher  through  the  heart.  He  is 
familiar  with  the  passions,  and  leans  towards  the  tender 
and  loving  aspect  of  our  nature.  He  takes  after  Burns 
more  than  after  Wordsworth,  Elliot  rather  than  Thomson. 
He  is  but  a  young  man,  though  he  has  had  crowded  into 
his  twenty-three  years  already  the  life  of  an  old  man. 
He  has  won  his  experience  in  the  school  of  the  poor,  and 
nobly  earned  his  title  to  speak  to  them  as  a  man  and 
a  brother,  dowered  with  "  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of 
scorn,  the  love  of  Love." — Extract  from  an  article  in 
"Eliza  Cook's  Journal,"  1581,  written  by  Dr.  Samuel 
Smiles. 


oems  aiti 


TO   MY   WIFE. 

LIKE  those  Ambassadors  of  old,  that  went 
To  the  far  Orient  land,  with  kingly  gifts 
Of  Gold,  so  royal-rare  and  wondrous  fine  ; 
And  Jewels — from  which  a  subtle  spirit  lookt — 
To  nestle  richly  between  Beauty's  breasts — 
And  crown  her  gorgeous  brows  with  winking  flame, 
Or  clothe  her  starrily  as  Queenly  Night, 
And  found  that  land  a  garden  where  they  grew, 
Lavish,  as  all  the  dews  were  turn'd  to  gems  ; 
So  bring  I  thee,  Sweet  Lady  of  my  love, 
My  gems,  which  I  have  garner'd  up,  to  find 
How  poor  they  are  beside  thy  peerless  wealth. 
Th'  Elysium  where  thy  tender  spirit  dwells 
Is  written  o'er  with  thoughts  of  beauty,  thick 
As  starry  mysteries  written  on  the  night. 
Thy  realm  is  rich  in  Memory's  golden  mines, 

2 


And  flashing  out  with  harvest-fields  of  Hope. 

My  Muse  !  that  moveth  swathed  with  holier  light, 

Throned  on  the  regnant  heights  of  Womanhood 

In  all  thy  summer  beauty,  warm  as  when 

I  lookt  out  on  the  sunny  side  of  Life, 

And  saw  thee  summering  like  a  blooming  Yine, 

That  reacheth  globes  of  wine  in  at  the  lattice 

By  the  ripe  armful,  with  ambrosial  smile. 

The  flying  Cares  but  touch  thy  Life's  fair  face, 

Lightly  as  swimming  shadows  dnsk  the  Lake. 

Come  sit  thee  down,  dear,  by  my  side,  To-night ; 

The  world  shut  out,  our  little  world  shut  in  ! 

Where  we  are  happy  as  the  Bird  whose  nest 

Is  heaven'd  in  the  heart  of  purple  Hills, 

Or  regiou'd  in  the  palmy  top  of  life, 

Where  sleep  is  dark  and  lusty  as  leaves  in  June  : 

Now  shut  thine  eyes,  and  see  a  pageant  bloom 

Upon  the  dark, — a  Vision  sweeping  by. 

I  was  a  dweller  amid  shadows  grim  : 

Till  FREEDOM  toucht  my  yearning  eyes,  and  lo  ! 

Life  in  a  shining  circle,  rounding  rose, 

As  heaven  on  heaven  goes  up  the  jewell'd  night. 

New  floods  of  passionate  life  swirl'd  at  my  heart, 

Like  Ocean-surges  rolling  round  the  world  : 

And  FREEDOM  was  my  glittering  Bride.     For  me 

She  walkt  the  world  as  a  Divinity, 

Sang  like  a  Spirit  in  Life's  darkened  ways, 

I'  the  Rainbow  reacht  forth  girdling  arms  of  love, 


27 


To  clasp  the  Unapparent  to  the  Earth, — 

Turu'd  common  things  to  beanty  :  as  the  sun 

Doth  kindle  glory  in  the  grass  and  dust — 

When  forth  flame-plumed  in  chariot  sublime, 

And  rode  the  winds,  like  him  who  walks  the  worlds 

When  the  roused  Storm-God  strode  his  War-Horse,  Ocean, 

That  sloughs  the  foam,  with  flying  mane  of  fire  ! 

And  when  the  fresh  Morn  flower'd  like  a  Rose, 

Birds  sang  of  her,  and  all  their  happy  hearts 

Rang  out  in  music,  Leaves  clapt  faery  hands, 

The  Flowers  for  joy  stood  tearful  in  her  glory, 

And  World  went  singing,  unto  World,  of  FREEDOM. 

And  I  would  blazon  her  melodious  name, 

Sing  some  wild  pasan  should  touch  the  world  to  tears, 

Or  chariot  it  to  battle  in  her  Cause  : 

For  0  1  her  softest  breath,  that  might  not  stir 

The  summer  gossamer  tremulous  on  its  throne, 

Makes  the  crown'd  Tyrants  start  with  realmless  looks ! 

I  would  have  given  the  lustre  of  my  life 

To  add  one  jewel  to  her  Diadem  1 

And  then  thou  cam'st,  and  LOVE  grew  lord  of  all. 

Look  how  the  Sun  puts  out  the  eyes  of  fire  ! 

So  when  LOVE'S  royal  glance  my  lattice  lit, 

The  fires  of  FREEDOM  whiten'd  on  my  hearth. 

The  sleeping  Beauty  in  my  heart's  charm'd  Palace 

Woke  at  Love's  kiss.     My  life  was  set  aflush, 

As  Roses  redden  when  the  Spring  moves  by, 

And  the  green  buds  peer  out  like  eyes,  to  see 


28 


The  delicate  Spirit  whose  sweet  presence  stirr'd  them. 

How  my  heart  ripen'd  in  its  flooding  spring  ; 

As  when  the  sap  runs  up  the  tingling  trees, 

Till  all  the  sunny  life  laughs  out  in  leaves, 

And  lifts  its  fluttering  wings  !     So  my  heart  felt 

With  such  brave  shoots  of  glory  bursting  up, 

As  it  had  flower'd  for  Immortality. 

The  heights  of  Being  came  out  from  their  cloud, 

As  the  cliffs  kindle  when  the  Morning  comes 

Swimming  the  utmost  sea  in  ruddy  haste, 

With  foam  of  glory  ;  and  the  ruby  light, 

Like  mellow  wine,  runs  down  remotest  hills. 

Thou  cam'st,  my  sparking  Bird  of  Paradise  ! 

With  a  soft  murmuring  as  of  winnowing  wings 

That  fold  the  nest  so  Dove-like  tenderly  ! 

With  brows  that  parted  lovely  waves  of  hair, 

And  took  the  gazer's  eye  like  some  white  Grace  ! 

Eyes,  loving  large  !     Lips  Houri-like,  that  light 

A  soul  to  glory  with  their  kiss  of  fire  ; 

And  cheeks  fresh-misted  with  the  bloom  of  Morn. 

And  thou  didst  move,  a  Splendour  mid  Life's  Shadows, 

Making  a  Rembrandt  Picture.     So  the  Stars 

In  all  their  glory  pass  the  shrinking  Dark. 

O,  I  was  stirr'd  as  though  a  Spirit  went  by  ; 

Or  I  had  met  some  awful  Loveliness, 

That  haunts  the  realm  of  Dreams,  or  duskly  floats 

Across  the  wandering  solitudes  of  Thought. 

So  Love  was  lord  of  all.     I  touch  my  lyre, 


29 


And  love  o'erflows  my  heart,  and  floods  my  hand. 
Love  makes  all  dear  delights  so  soothly  sweet, 
Life  pants  heart-stifled  with  its  luscious  load, 
Like  young  Earth  claspt  in  June's  voluptuous  arms, 
Faint  with  her  fragrance,  flooded  up  in  flowers. 
Love's  life  divine,  and  Beauty  is  its  smile. 
O  Love  will  make  the  killing  crown  of  thorn 
Burst  into  blossom  on  the  Martyr's  brow  ! 
Upon  Love's  bosom  Earth  floats  like  an  Ark 
Safely  through  all  the  Deluge  of  the  dark. 
Love  rays  us  round  as  glory  swathes  a  star, 
And,  from  the  mystic  touch  of  lips  and  palms, 
Streams  rosy  warmth  enough  t'  illume  a  world  : 
And  Spirit-eyes,  from  out  the  purpling  glooms, 
Mark  how  we  feed  this  human  Altar-flame, 
How  speeds  this  ripening  into  Diety  ! 
What  glittering  robes  for  immortality 
Trail  starry  radiance  through  our  night  of  Earth  ! 
And  in  our  home  thy  presence  maketh  Love 
A  Mortal,  who  hath  died  to  rise  again, 
Immortal,  in  its  nobler  life  with  thee. 

0  Love  !  sublime  me  unto  loftier  things  ; 
Roll  up  my  Orb  from  Passion's  misting  Deep, 
To  climb  the  heights  of  Thought's  eternal  Vast ; 
And  though  it  shine  not  mid  the  Suns  of  Song, 
To  set  a  World  sweet-murmuring  in  its  light, 
Like  Memnou  at  the  radiant  touch  of  Dawn, 

1  know  each  Star  hath  its  own  perfect  place 


30 


In  heaven,  though  it  may  have  no  name  on  Earth. 
I  hope  my  hope,  and  dream  my  dream  that  life 
With  me  shall  yet  ring  out  melodious,  'twixt 
The  silences  of  heaven  and  the  grave. 

0  Labour  !  blind  and  feeling  for  the  day  ! 
Alight  I  go  forth  to  peer  with  eagle  ken 
Into  the  blessed  land  of  promise,  where 
The  Future  like  a  fruitfuller  Summer  sits 
Ripening  HER  Eden  silently,  to  bear 

The  crowning  flower  of  consummated  Life, — 

Where  Freedom's  Song-Birds  fly,  to  build  their  nests, 

And  warm  to  life  their  brood  of  darling  dreams  : 

Then  see  thy  dark  face  lighten  at  my  news, 

And  hearten  thee  to  lift  up  grander  brows 

With  light  o'erflowing  like  a  shining  Sea. 

1  see  a  shape  behind  a  mist,  that  burns 

I'  the  flushing  distance  of  some  unseen  Goal  ; 
That  grows  with  gazing  on,  like  Lovers'  beauty. 
With  beckoning  smiles  the  Glory  draws  me  on  ; 
One  hand  points  up,  one  holds  a  glittering  crown, 
For  me  to  climb  and  wear  with  lordlier  growth, 
And  airy  Voices  call  me,  bid  me  leap 
In  Victory's  Car  as  it  goes  bickering  by. 
And  Thou,  dear  Wife  !  with  exultation  lit, 
Wilt  weep  proud  tears  t'  enrich  my  wine  of  joy, — 
A  costlier  cup  than  ever  Anthony's  Queen 
Magnificent  1  drank  in  her  voluptuous  vein  ! 


31 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABE  CHRISTABEL. 

WHEN  Danae-Earth  bares  all  her  charms, 
And  gives  the  God  her  perfect  flower, 
Who  in  the  sunshine's  golden  shower, 

Leaps  warm  into  her  amorous  arms ! 

When  buds  are  bursting  on  the  brier, 
And  all  the  kindled  greenery  glows, 
And  life  hath  richest  overflows, 

And  morning  fields  arc  fringed  with  fire : 

When  young  Maids  feel  Love  stir  i'  the  blood, 
And  wanton  with  the  kissing  leaves 
And  branches,  and  the  quick  sap  heaves, 

And  dances  to  a  ripen'd  flood  ; 

Till,  blown  to  its  hidden  heart  with  sighs, 

Love's  red  rose  burns  i'  the  cheek  so  dear, 
And,  as  sea-jewels  upward  peer, 

Love-thoughts  melt  through  their  swimming  eyes  : 

When  Beauty  walks  in  bravest  dress, 

And,  fed  with  April's  mellow  showers, 

The  earth  laughs  out  with  sweet  May-flowers 

That  flush  for  very  happiness  : 


32 


And  Spider-Puck  such  wonder  weaves 

0'  nights,  and  nooks  of  greening  gloom 
Are  rich  with  violets  that  bloom 

In  the  cool  dark  of  dewy  leaves  : 

When  Rose-buds  drink  the  fiery  wine 

Of  Dawn,  with  crimson  stains  i'  the  mouth, 
All  thirstily  as  yearning  Youth 

From  Love's  hand  drinks  the  draught  divine  ; 

And  honey'd  plots  are  drowsed  with  Bees  : 
And  Larks  rain  music  by  the  shower, 
While  singing,  singing  hour  by  hour, 

Song  like  a  Spirit  sits  i'  the  Trees  ! 

When  fainting  hearts  forget  their  fears 
And  in  the  poorest  Life's  salt  cup 
Some  rare  wine  runs,  and  Hope  builds  up 

Her  rainbow  over  Memory's  tears  I 

It  fell  upon  a  merry  May  morn, 

I'  the  perfect  prime  of  that  sweet  time 
When  daisies  whiten,  woodbines  climb, — 

The  dear  Babe  Christabel  was  born. 


33 


ALL  night  the  Stars  bright  watches  kept, 
Like  Gods  that  look  a  golden  calm  ; 
The  Silence  dropt  its  precious  balm, 

And  the  tired  world  serenely  slept. 

The  birds  were  darkling  in  the  nest, 
Or  bosom'd  in  voluptuous  trees  : 
On  beds  of  flowers  the  panting  breeze 

Had  kist  its  fill  and  sank  to  rest. 

All  night  beneath  the  Cottage  eaves, 
A  lonely  light,  with  tremulous  Arc, 
Surged  back  a  space  the  sea  of  dark, 

And  glanced  among  the  glimmering  leaves. 

Without  !  the  quiet  heavens  above 

The  nest  of  life,  did  lean  and  brood  ! 
Within  !  the  Mother's  tears  of  blood 

Wet  the  Gethsemane  of  her  love  ! 

And  when  the  Morn  with  frolic  zest, 

Lookt  through  the  curtains  of  the  night, 
There  was  a  dearer  dawn  of  light, 

A  tenderer  life  the  Mother's  prest  ! 


34 


Ah  !  bliss  to  make  the  brain  reel  wild  ! 
The  Star  new-kindled  in  the  dark — 
Life  that  had  fluttered  like  a  Lark — 

Lay  in  her  bosom  a  sweet  Child  ! 

How  she  had  felt  it  drawing  down 

Her  nesting  heart  more  close  and  close,- 
Her  rose-bud  ripening  to  a  Rose, 

That  she  should  one  day  see  full-blown  I 

How  she  had  throbb'd  with  hopes  and  fears, 
And  strain'd  her  inner  eyes  till  dim, 
To  see  the  coming  glory  swim 

Through  the  rich  mist  of  happy  tears  ; 

For  it,  her  woman's  heart  drank  up 

And  smiled  at,  Sorrow's  darkest  dole  : 
And  now  Delight's  most  dainty  soul 

Was  crusht  for  her  in  one  rich  cup  ! 

And  then  delicious  languors  crept, 

Like  nectar,  on  her  pain's  hot  drouth, 
And  feeling  fingers — kissing  mouth — 

Being  faint  with  joy,  the  mother  slept. 


35 


BABE  Christabel  was  royally  born  ! 

For  when  the  earth  was  flusht  with  flowers, 
And  drencht  with  beauty  in  rainbow  showers, 

She  came  through  golden  gates  of  Morn. 

No  chamber  arras-pictured  round, 

Where  sunbeams  golden  gorgeous  gloom, 
And  touch  its  glories  into  bloom, 

And  footsteps  fell  withouten  sound, 

Was  her  Birth-place  that  merry  May-morn  ; 
No  gifts  were  heapt,  no  bells  were  rung, 
No  healths  were  crowu'd,  no  songs  were  sung, 

When  dear  Babe  Christabel  was  born  : 


But  Nature  on  the  darling  smiled, 

And  with  her  beauty's  blessing  crown'd  : 
Love  brooded  o'er  the  hallowed  ground, 

And  there  were  Angels  with  the  Child  ! 


And  May  her  kisses  of  love  did  blow 
On  amorous  airs,  that  came  to  her 
With  gifts  of  Frankincense  and  Myrrh, 

As  came  the  Magi  long  ago 


36 


To  worship  Bethlehem's  baby-King, 

Spring-Birds  make  welcoming  merriment, 
And  all  the  Flowers  for  welcome  sent 

The  secret  sweetness  of  the  Spring. 

With  glancing  lights  and  shimmering  shade, 
And  cheeks  that  toucht  and  ripelier  burn'd 
May-Roses  in  at  the  lattice  yearn'd 

A-tiptoe,  and  Good  Morrow  bade. 

No  purple  and  fine  linen  might 

Be  hoarded  up  for  her  sweet  sake  : 
But  Mother's  love  shall  clothe  and  make 

The  little  wearer  richly  dight  ! 

Wide  worlds  of  worship  are  their  eyes, 
Their  loyal  hearts  are  worlds  of  love, 
Who  fondly  clasp  the  stranger  Dove, 

And  read  its  news  from  Paradise. 

Their  looks  praise  God — souls  sing  for  glee  : 
They  think  if  this  old  world  had  toil'd 
Through  ages  to  bring  forth  their  child, 

It  hath  a  glorious  destiny. 


37 


0  HAPPY  Husband  !  happy  Wife  1 

The  rarest  blessing  Heaven  drops  down, 
The  sweetest  blossom  in  Spring's  crown, 

Starts  in  the  furrows  of  your  life  ! 

God  1  what  a  towering  height  ye  win, 
Who  cry,  "  Lo  my  beloved  Child  I" 
And,  life  on  life  sublimely  piled, 

Ye  touch  the  heavens  and  peep  within  ! 

Look  how  a  star  of  glory  swims 
Down  aching  silences  of  space, 
Flushing  the  Darkness  till  its  face 

With  beating  heart  of  light  o'erbrims  ! 

So  brightening  came  Babe  Christabel, 

To  touch  the  earth  with  fresh  romance, 
And  light  a  Mother's  countenance 

With  looking  on  her  miracle. 

With  hands  so  flower-like  soft,  and  fair, 

She  caught  at  life,  with  words  as  s\voi  t 
As  first  spring  violets,  and  feet 

As  faery-light  ;\s  feet  of  iiir. 


The  Father,  down  in  Toil's  mirk  mine, 
Turns  to  his  wealthy  world  above, 
Its  radiance,  and  its  home  of  love  ; 

And  lights  his  life  like  sun-struck  wine. 

The  Mother  moves  with  queenlier  tread  : 
Proud  swell  the  globes  of  ripe  delight 
Above  her  heart,  so  warm  and  white 

A  pillow  for  the  baby-head  ! 

Their  natures  deepen,  well-like  clear, 
Till  God's  eternal  stars  are  seen, 
For  ever  shining  and  serene, 

By  eyes  anointed  Beauty's  seer. 

A  sense  of  glory  all  things  took, — 

The  red  Rose-Heart  of  Dawn  would  blow, 
And  Sundown's  sumptuous  pictures  show 

Babe-Cherubs  wearing  their  Babe's  look  ! 

And  round  their  peerless  one  they  clung, 
Like  bees  about  a  flower's  wine-cup  : 
New  thoughts  and  feelings  blossora'd  up, 

And  hearts  for  very  fulness  sung. 

Of  what  their  budding  Babe  should  grow, 
When  the  Maid  crimson'd  into  Wife, 
Andcrown'd  the  summit  of  some  life, 

Like  Phosphor,  with  morn  on  its  brow  ! 


And  they  should  bless  her  for  a  Bride, 

Who,  like  a  splendid  saint  alit 

In  some  heart's  seventh  heaven,  should  sit, 
As  now  in  theirs,  all  glorified  ! 

But  0  !  't  was  all  too  white  a  brow 
To  flush  with  Passion  that  doth  fire 
With  Hymen's  torch  its  own  death-pyre, — 

So  pure  her  heart  was  beating  now  ! 

And  thus  they  built  their  Castles  brave 
In  fairy  lands  of  gorgeous  cloud  ; 
They  never  saw  a  little  white  shroud, 

Nor  guess'd  how  flowers  may  mask  the  grave. 


SHE  grew  a  sweet  and  sinless  Child, 

In  sun  and  shadow, — calm  and  strife  ; 
A  Rainbow  on  the  dark  of  Life, 

From  Love's  own  radiant  heaven  down-smiled 

In  lonely  loveliness  she  grew, — 

A  shape  all  music,  light,  and  love, 
With  startling  looks,  so  eloquent  of 

The  spirit  burning  into  view. 


At  Childhood  she  could  seldom  play 

With  merry  heart,  whose  flashings  rise 
Like  splendour-winged  butterflies 

From  honeyed  hearts  of  flowers  in  May  : 

The  fields  with  flowers  flamed  out  and  flusht, 
The  Roses  into  crimson  yearned, 
With  cloudy  fire  the  wall-flowers  burn'd, 

And  blood-red  Sunsets  bloorn'd  and  blusht — 

And  still  her  cheek  was  pale  as  pearl, — 
It  took  no  tint  of  Summer's  wealth 
Of  colour,  warmth,  and  wine  of  Health  :- 

Ah  !  Death's  hand  whitely  pressed  the  Girl  I 

No  blushes  swarm'd  to  the  sun's  kiss 
Where  violet-veins  ran  purple  light, 
So  tenderly  thro'  Parian  white 

Touching  you  into  tenderness. 

A  spirit-look  was  ai  her  face, 

That  shadow'd  a  miraculous  range 
Of  meanings,  ever  rich  and  strange 

Or  lighten'd  glory  in  the  place. 

Such  mystic  lore  was  in  her  eyes, 

And  light  of  other  worlds  than  ours, 
She  lookt  as  she  had  fed  on  flowers, 

And  drunk  the  dews  of  Paradise. 


41 


Her  brow — fit  home  for  daintiest  dreams — 
With  such  a  dawn  of  light  was  crown'd, 
And  reeling  ringlets  showered  round, 

Like  sunny  sheaves  of  golden  beams  : 

And  she  would  talk  so  weirdly-wild, 
And  grow  upon  your  wonderings, 
As  tho'  her  stature  rose  on  wings  ! 

And  you  forgot  she  was  a  Child. 

Ah  !  she  was  one  of  those  who  come 
With  pledged  promise  not  to  stay 
Long,  ere  the  Angels  let  them  stray 

To  nestle  down  in  earthly  home  : 

And,  thro'  the  windows  of  her  eyes, 
We  often  saw  her  saintly  soul, 
Serene,  and  sad,  and  beautiful, 

Go  sorrowing  for  lost  Paradise. 

In  Earth  she  took  no  lusty  root, 

Her  beauty  of  promise  to  disclose, 
And  round  into  the  Woman-Rose, 

And  climb  into  Life's  crowning  fruit  : 

She  came — like  music  in  the  night 
Floating  as  heaven  in  the  brain, 
A  moment  oped,  and  shut  again, 

And  all  is  dark  where  all  was  light. 


42 


She  came, — as  comes  the  light  of  smiles 
O'er  earth,  and  every  budding  thing 
Makes  quick  with  beauty — alive  with  Spring  ; 

Then  goeth  to  Hesperian  Isles. 


MIDNIGHT  was  tranced  solemnly 

Thinking  of  dawn  :  Her  Star-thoughts  burn'd  ! 

The  Trees  like  burden'd  Prophets  yearn'd, 
Rapt  in  a  wind  of  prophecy  : 

When,  like  the  Night,  the  shadow  of  Woe 
On  all  things  laid  its  hand  death-dark, 
Our  last  hope  went  out  like  a  spark, 

And  a  cry  smote  heaven  like  a  blow  ! 

We  sat  and  watcht  by  Life's  dark  stream, 
Our  love-lamp  blown  about  the  night, 
With  hearts  that  lived  as  lived  its  light, 

And  died  as  died  its  precious  gleam. 

In  Death's  face  hers  flasht  up  and  smiled, 

As  smile  the  young  flowers  in  their  prime,- 
I1  the  face  of  their  grey  murderer  Time, 

And  Death  for  true  love  kist  our  child.    • 


She  thought  our  good-night  kiss  was  given, 
And  like  a  lily  her  life  did  close  ; 
Angels  uucurtain'd  that  repose, 

And  the  next  waking;  dawn'd  in  heaven. 


WITH  her  white  hands  claspt  she  sleepeth  ;  her  heart  is 

husht,  and  lips  are  cold  ; 
Death  shrouds  up  her  heaven  of  beauty,  and  a  weary 

way  I  go, 
Like  the  sheep  without  a  Shepherd  on  the  wintry  norland 

wold, 
With  the  face  of  Day  shut  out  by  blinding  snow. 

O'er  its  widow'd  nest  my  heart  sits  moaning  for  its  young 

that's  fled 
From  this  world  of  wail  and  weeping,  gone  to  join  her 

starry  peers ; 
And  my  light  of  life  o'ershadow'd  where  the  dear  one  lieth 

dead, 
And  I'm  crying  in  the  dark  with  many  fears. 

All  last  night-tide  she  seemed  near  me,  like  a  lost  beloved 

Bird, 

Beating  at  the  lattice  louder  than  the  sobbing  wind  and 
rain  ; 


44 


And  I  call'd  across  the  night  with  tender  name  and  fond- 
ling word  ; 
And  I  yearn'd  out  thro'  the  darkness,  all  in  vain. 

Heart  will  plead,  "  Eyes  cannot  see  her  :  they  are  blind 

with  tears  of  pain  ;" 
And  it  climbeth  up  and  straineth,  for  dear  life,  to  look 

and  hark 

While  I  call  her  once  again  :  but  there  cometh  no  refrain, 
And  it  droppeth  down,  and  dieth  in  the  dark. 


IN  this  dim  world  of  clouding  cares, 
We  rarely  know,  till  wildered  eyes 
See  white  wings  lessening  up  the  skies. 

The  Angels  with  us  unawares. 

And  thou  hath  stolen  a  jewel,  Death  I 
Shall  light  thy  dark  up  like  a  Star, 
A  Beacon  kindling  from  afar 

Our  light  of  love,  and  fainting  faith. 

Thro'  tears  it  gleams  perpetually, 

And  glitters  thro'  the  thickest  glooms, 
Till  the  eternal  morning  comes 

To  light  us  o'er  the  Jasper  Sea. 


45 


With  our  best  branch  in  tenderest  leaf, 

We've  strewn  the  way  our  Lord  doth  come  ; 
And,  ready  for  the  harvest-home, 

His  Reapers  bind  our  ripest  sheaf. 

Our  beautiful  Bird  of  light  hath  fled  : 
Awhile  she  sat  with  folded  wings — 
Sang  round  us  a  few  hoverings — 

Then  straightway  into  glory  sped. 

And  white-wing'd  Angels  nurture  her  : 

With  heaven's  white  radiance  robed  and  crown'd, 

And  all  Love's  purple  glory  round, 
She  summers  on  the  Hills  of  Myrrh. 

Thro'  Childhood's  morning-land,  serene 

She  walkt  betwixt  us  twain,  like  Love  ; 
While,  in  a  robe  of  light  above, 

Her  better  Angel  walkt  unseen, 

Till  Life's  highway  broke  bleak  and  wild  ; 
Then,  lets  her  starry  garments  trail 
In  mire,  heart  bleed,  and  courage  fail, 

The  Angel's  arms  caught  up  the  child. 

Her  wave  of  life  hath  backward  roll'd 
To  the  great  ocean  ;  on  whose  shore 
We  wander  up  and  down,  to  store 

Some  treasures  of  the  times  of  old  : 


46 


And  aye  we  seek  and  hunger  on 

For  precious  pearls  and  relics  rare, 
Strewn  on  the  sands  for  us  to  wear 

At  heart,  for  love  of  her  that's  gone. 

O  weep  no  more  !  there  yet  is  balm] 
In  Gilead  !     Love  doth  ever  shed 
Rich  healing  where  it  nestles, — spread 

O'er  desert  pillows,  some  green  Palm  ! 

God's  ichor  fills  the  hearts  that  bleed  ; — 
The  best  fruit  loads  the  broken  bough  ; 
And  in  the  wounds  our  sufferings  plough, 

Immortal  love  sows  sovereign  seed. 


LONG  EXPECTED. 

0  MANY  and  many  a  day  before  we  met, 

1  knew  some  spirit  walkt  the  world  alone, 
Awaiting  the  Beloved  from  afar  ; 

And  I  was  the  anointed  chosen  one 

Of  all  the  world  to  crown  her  queenly  brows 

With  the  imperial  crown  of  human  love, 

And  light  its  glory  in  her  happy  eyes. 

I  saw  not  with  mine  eyes  so  full  of  tears, 

But  heard  Faith's  low  sweet  singing  in  the  night, 


47 


And,  groping  thro'  the  darkness,  toucht  God's  hand. 

I  knew  my  sunshine  somewhere  warrn'd  the  world, 

Tho'  I  trode  darkling  in  a  perilous  way  ; 

And  I  should  reach  it  in  His  own  good  time 

Who  sendeth  sun,  and  dew,  and  love  for  all : 

My  heart  might  toil  on  blindly,  but,  like  earth, 

It  kept  sure  footing  thro'  the  thickest  gloom. 

Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  talkt  of  thee  ! — 

Sweet  winds,  and  whispering  leaves,  and  piping  birds  ; 

The  trickling  sunlight,  and  the  flashing  dews  ; 

Eve's  crimson  air  and  light  of  twinkling  gold  ; 

Spring's  kindled  greenery,  and  her  breath  of  balm  ; 

The  happy  hum  and  stir  of  summer  woods, 

And  the  light  dropping  of  the  silver  rain. 

Thine  eyes  oped  with  their  rainy  lights,  and  laughters, 

In  April's  tearful  heaven  of  tender  blue, 

With  all  the  changeful  beauty  melting  thro'  them, 

And  Dawn  and  Sunset  ended  in  thy  face. 

And  standing  as  in  God's  own  presence-chamber, 

When  silence  lay  like  sleep  upon  the  world, 

And  it  seem'd  rich  to  die,  alone  with  Night, 

Like  Moses  'neath  the  kisses  of  God's  lips  ! 

The  Stars  have  trembled  thro'  the  holy  hush, 

And  smiled  clown  tenderly,  and  read  to  me 

The  love  hid  for  me  in  a  budding  breast, 

Like  incense  folded  in  a  young  flower's  heart. 

Strong  as  a  sea-swell  came  the  wave  of  wings, 

Strange  trouble  trembled  thro'  my  inner  depths, 


48 


And  answering  wings  have  sprung  within  my  soul ; 

And  from  the  dumb  waste  places  of  the  dark, 

A  voice  has  breathed,  "•  She  comes  !"  and  ebb'd  again  ; 

While  all  my  life  stood  listening  for  thy  coming. 

O,  I  have  guessed  thy  presence  out  of  sight, 

And  felt  it  in  the  beating  of  my  heart. 

When  all  was  dark  within,  sweet  thoughts  would  come, 

As  starry  guests  come  golden  down  the  gloom 

And  thro'  Night's  lattice  smile  a  rare  delight : 

While,  lifted  for  the  dear  and  distant  Dawn, 

The  face  of  all  things  were  a  happy  light, 

Like  those  dream-smiles  which  are  the  speech  of  Sleep. 

Thus  Love  lived  on,  and  strengthen'd  with  the  days, 

Lit  by  its  own  true  light  within  my  heart, 

Like  a  live  diamond  burning  in  the  dark. 

Then  came  there  One,  a  mirage  of  the  Dawn  ; 

She  swam  on  towards  me  in  her  sumptuous  triumph, 

Voluptuously  upborne,  like  Aphrodite 

Upon  a  meadowy  swell  of  emerald  sea. 

A  ripe,  serene,  smile-affluent  graciousness 

Hung  like  a  shifting  radiance  on  her  motion, 

As  bickering  hues  upon  the  Dove's  neck  burn. 

Her  lip  might  flush  a  wrinkled  life  in  bloom  ! 

Her  eyes  were  an  omnipotence  of  love  ! 

"  0  eyes  !"  I  said,  "if  such  your  glories  be, 

Sure  'tis  a  warm  heart  feedeth  ye  with  light  !" 

The  silver  throbbing  of  her  laughter  pulst 

The  air  with  music  rich  and  resonant,— 


49 


As  from  the  deep  heart  of  a  summer  night, 
Some  bird  in  sudden  sparklings  of  fine  sound 
Hurries  its  startled  being  into  song. 
And  from  her  sumptuous  wealth  of  golden  hair 
Unto  the  delicate  pearly  finger-tip, 
Fresh  beauty  trembled  from  its  thousand  springs  : 
And  standing  in  the  outer  porch  of  life, 
All  eager  for  the  templed  mysteries, 
With  a  rich  heart  as  full  of  fragrant  love 
As  May's  nausk-roses  are  of  morning's  wine, 
What  marvel  if  I  question'd  not  her  brow, 
For  the  flame-signet  of  the  Hand  divine, 
Or  gauged  it  for  the  crown  of  my  large  love  ? 
I  plunged  to  clutch  the  pearl  of  her  babbling  beauty, 
Like  some  swift  diver  in  a  shallow  stream, 
That  smites  his  life  out  on  its  heart  of  stone. 
Ah  !  how  my  life  did  run  with  fire  and  tears  ! 
With  what  a  Titan-pulse  my  love  did  beat  ! 
But  she,  rose-lined  without, — God  pity  her  ! — 
Was  cold  at  heart  as  snow  in  last  year's  nest, 
And  struck  like  death  into  my  burning  brain. 
My  tears  that  rain'd  out  life,  she  froze  in  falling, 
And  wore  them,  jewel-like,  to  deck  her  triumph  1 
But  love  is  never  lost,  tho'  hearts  run  waste  ; 
Its  tides  may  gush  'mid  swirling,  swathing  deserts, 
Where  no  green  leaf  drinks  up  the  precious  life  : 
Yet  love  doth  evermore  enrich  itself, — 
Its  bitterest  waters  run  some  golden  sands  ! 

3 


50 


No  star  goes  down  but  climbs  in  other  skies  ; 
The  rose  of  Sunset  folds  its  glory  up, 
To  burst  again  from  out  the  heart  of  Dawn  ; 
And  love  is  never  lost,  tho'  hearts  run  waste, 
And  sorrow  makes  the  chasten'd  heart  a  seer  ; 
•The  deepest  dark  reveals  the  starriest  hope, 
And  Faith  can  trust  her  heaven  behind  the  veil. 


WOOED  AND  WON. 

THE  plough  of  Time  breaks  up  our  Eden-land, 
And  tramples  down  its  fruitful  flowery  prime. 
Yet  thro'  the  dust  of  ages  living  shoots 
O'  the  old  immortal  seed  start  in  the  furrows  ; 
And,  where  Love  looketh  on  with  glorious  eye, 
These  quicken'd  germs  of  cverlastingness 
Flower  lusty,  as  of  old  in  Paradise  ! 
And  blessings  on  the  starry  chance  of  love  1 
And  blessings  on  the  morn  of  merry  May  ! — 
That  led  my  footsteps  to  your  beechen  bower. 
Thus  hangs  the  picture  in  my  mind,  sweet  Wife  ! 
Rich  as  a  Millais  in  its  tint  and  tone. 
Nature  flasht  by  me  with  her  glorious  shows. 
The  birds  were  singing  on  the  blossoming  boughs, 
With  Love's  sweet  mystery  stirring  at  their  hearts, 


51 


Like  first  spring-motions  in  the  veins  o'  the  flowers. 

A  light  of  green  laught  up  the  shining  hills, 

Which  rounded  through  the  mellowing,  gloating  air, 

As  their  big  hearts  heaved  to  some  heart  beyond, 

Or  strove  with  inner  yearnings  for  the  crown 

Of  purple  rondure  smiling  there  in  heaven  ! 

The  Flowers  were  forth  in  all  their  conquering  beauty, 

And,  winking  in  their  Mother  Earth's  old  face, 

Said,  all  her  children  should  have  happy  hearts. 

Deeper  and  deeper  in  the  wood's  green  gloom 

I  nestled  for  the  fever  at  life's  core  : 

And  thirstily  my  heart  was  drinking  in 

Rich  overflowings  of  some  Cushat's  love  ; 

When,  flash  !  the  air  instinct  with  splendours  grew, 

As  if  the  world,  while  on  her  starry  journey, 

Had  suddenly  floated  in  the  clime  of  heaven. 

Upon  a  primrose  bank  you  sat, — a  sight 

To  couch  the  old  blind  sorrow  of  my  soul  ! 

A  sweet  new  blossom  of  Humanity, — 

Fresh  fallen  from  God's  own  home  to  flower  on  earth. 

A  golden  burst  of  sunbeams  glinted  through 

The  verdurous  roofs  lush-leafy  greenery, 

And  on  you  dropt  its  crown  of  living  light. 

Your  eyes — half-shut,  while  thro'  their  silken  eaves 

Trembled  the  secret  sweetness  hid  at  heart — 

Oped  sudden  at  full,  and  wide  with  wonderment ! 

The  sweetest  eyes  that  ever  drank  sun  for  soul : 

As  subtly  tender  as  a  summer  heaven, 


52 


Brimm'd  with  the  beauty  of  a  starry  night ! 

Your  face,  so  dewy  fresh  and  wondrous  fair, 

Kindled  and  lighten'd  as  the  coming  God 

Were  labouring  upward  thro'  its  birth  of  fire  ! 

The  fleetest  swallow-dip  of  a  tender  smile 

Ran  round  your  mouth  in  thrillings  ;  while  your  cheek 

Dimpled,  as  from  the  arch  Love's  finger-print, 

Out  flew  his  signal,  fluttering  in  a  blush  ! 

And  when  your  voice  broke  up  the  air  for  music, 

It  smote  upon  my  startled  heart  as  smites 

The  new-born  babe's  first  cry  a  mother's  ear, 

Yet  strangely  toucht  some  mystic  memory, 

And  dimly  seem'd  some  old  familiar  sound. 

That  day,  with  an  immortalizing  kiss, 

You  crown'd  me  monarch  of  your  rich  heart-world, 

Which  heaved  a  boundless  sea  of  love,  whose  tides 

llan  radiant  pulsings  thro'  your  rosy  limbs. 

How  the  love-lights  did  float  up  in  your  eyes, 

Like  virgin  stars  from  violet  depths  of  night  ! 

Dear  eyes  !  all  craving  with  Love's  ache  and  hunger  ! 

And  all  the  spirit  stood  in  your  face  athirst  ! 

And  from  the  rose-cup  of  your  murmuring  mouth 

Sweetness  o'erflow'd,  as  from  a  fragrant  fount. 

0  kiss  of  life  !  that  oped  our  Eden-world  1 

The  harvest  of  an  age's  wealth  of  bliss 

In  that  first  kiss  was  reapt  in  one  rich  minute  ! 

The  wanton  airs  came  breathing  like  the  touch 

Of  fragrant  lips  that  feed  the  blood  with  flame  ! 


53 


The  very  earth  seem'd  bursting  up,  and  heaven 
Clung  round  and  claspt  us  as  in  glowing  arms, 
To  crush  the  wine  of  all  your  ripen'd  beauty, 
Which  were  a  fitting  sacrament  for  death — 
Into  a  costly  cup  of  life  for  me. 


SONG. 

AH  !  'tis  like  a  tale  of  olden 

Time,  long,  long  ago  ; 
When  the  world  was  in  its  golden 

Prime,  and  love  was  lord  below  ! 
Every  vein  of  Earth  was  dancing 

With  the  Spring's  new  wine  ! 
'Twas  the  pleasant  time  of  flowers, 

When  I  met  you,  love  of  mine  ! 
Ah  !  some  spirit  sure  was  straying 

Out  of  heaven  that  day, 
When  I  met  you,  Sweet  1  a-Maying 

In  the  merry,  merry  May. 

Little  heart  !  it  shyly  open'd 

Its  red  leaves'  love-lore, 
Like  a  rose  that  must  be  ripen'd 

To  the  dainty,  dainty  core. 


But  its  beauties  daily  brighten, 

And  it  blooms  so  dear, — 
Tho'  a  many  Winters  whiten, 

I  go  Maying  all  the  year. 
And  my  proud  heart  will  be  praying 

Blessings  on  the  day, 
When  I  met  you,  Sweet,  a-Maying, 

In  the  merry,  merry  May. 


WEDDED    LOVE. 

THE  summer  Night  comes  brooding  down  on  Earth, 
As  Love  comes  brooding  down  on  human  hearts, 
With  bliss  that  hath  no  utterance  save  rich  tears. 
She  floats  in  fragrance  down  the  smiling  dark, 
Foldeth  a  kiss  upon  the  lips  of  Life, — 
Curtaineth  into  rest  the  weary  world, — 
And  shuts  us  in  with  all  our  hid  delights. 
The  Stars  come  sparkling  thro'  the  gorgeous  gloom, 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  fields  of  heaven  ;  or  tears 
That  hang  rich  jewels  on  the  cheeks  of  Night. 
A  spirit-feel  is  in  the  solemn  air. 
The  Flowers  fold  their  cups  like  praying  hands, 
And  with  droopt  heads  await  the  blessing,  Night 
Gives  with  her  silent  magnanimity. 


'Tis  evening  with  the  world  ;  but,  in  my  soul 

The  light  of  wedded  love  is  still  at  dawn  ! 

And  skies  my  world,  an  everlasting  Dawn. 

My  heart  rings  out  in  music,  like  a  lark 

Hung  in  the  charmed  palace  of  the  Morn, 

That  circles  singing  to  its  mate  i'  the  nest, 

With  luminous  being  running  o'er  with  song  : 

So  my  heart  flutters  round  its  mate  at  home  ! 

There,  with  her  eyes  turned  to  her  heart,  she  reads 

The  golden  secrets  written  on  its  heaven, 

And  broodeth  o'er  its  panting  wealth  of  love, 

As  Night  i'  the  hush  and  hallow  of  her  beauty 

Bares  throbbing  heaven  to  its  most  tremulous  depths, 

And  broods  in  silence  o'er  her  starry  wealth. 

And,  fingering  in  her  bosom's  soft,  white  nest, 

A  fair  babe,  beautiful  as  Dawn  in  heaven, 

Made  of  a  Mother's  richest  thoughts  of  love, — 

Lies  like  a  smile  of  sunshine  among  lilies, 

That  giveth  glory — drinketh  fragrant  life  ! 

Sweet  bud  upon  a  Rose  !  our  plot  of  spring, 

That  bursts  in  bloom  amid  a  wintry  world  ! 

How  dear  it  is  to  mark  th'  immortal  life 

Deepen,  and  darken,  in  her  large,  round  eyes, — 

To  watch  Life's  rose  of  dawn  put  forth  its  leaves, 

And  guess  the  perfumed  secret  of  its  heart — 

And  catch  the  silver  words  that  come  to  break 

The  golden  silence  hung  like  heaven  around. 

But  soft !  Elysium  opens  in  my  brain  I 


Dear  Wife  !  with  sweet,  low  voice,  she  syllables 
Some  precious  music  balm'd  in  her  heart's  book, 
And  I  am  flooded  with  melodious  rain, 
Like  Nature  standing  crown'd  with  sunlit  showers. 


"  As  the  surging  heart  o'  the  Sea  hungers  everlastingly 

For  the  Moon,  heaven-charmed  by  her  influence  : 
As  Star  yearns  to  Star,  with  love  palpitating  like  a  dove, 
Doth  my  heart  yearn  up  to  his  bright  eminence. 

"  0  my  Love,  he  seems  to  stand  where  Heaven  leans  so 

near  at  hand, 

That  from  other  worlds  his  lineaments  take  light : 
And  he  fills  my  cup  of  wonder,  and  floods  all  my  life  with 

splendour, 
As  a  glorious,  golden  Moon  fills  all  the  night. 

"  At  his  violet-sweet  words  my  heart  carols  like  a  bird's, 
And  rich  instincts  burst  from  out  it  like  heaven-flowers  ; 

Wings  bud  in  me  at  his  kiss,  and  my  being  brims  with 

bliss, 
As  a  valley  brims  with  life  in  spring-tide  hours. 


57 


"  0  my  life  was  dark  and  cold  as  the  night-dews  on  the 

world. 

Waiting  to  be  made  alive  with  fire  of  dawn  ; 
Till  his  presence  on  me  lighten'd  and  his  blessing  on  me 

brighten'd, 
And  my  life  like  dews  lit  up  for  heaven  shone." 


Xay,  Sweet  Heart !  that  should  be  my  song,  who  search 
Love's  lore  in  vain  for  meet  similitudes 
To  symbol  what  thy  love  hath  been  to  me. 
The  God  lies  prison'd  in  the  mountain  stone, 
The  muffled  Music  slumbers  in  the  strings, 
Awaiting  the  Deliverer's  magic  touch  1 
So,  thou  beloved  !  did  I  wait  for  Thee, 
To  waken  at  thy  touch.     My  Tree  of  being 
But  made  blind  gropings  in  the  dark,  cold  earth, 
And  moan'd  and  trembled,  in  the  wintry  air, 
Stretching  out  naked  hands  to  pluck  at  life  : 
Until  you  came,  with  all  your  light,  and  warmth, 
Encircling  round  it  like  a  summer  heaven, 
And  fed,  and  clad  it  with  your  fragrant  beauty, 
Till  budding  branches  burst  on  fire  with  bloom, 
And  into  ripe  fruits  mellow'd  goldeuly. 
My  life  lay  barren  as  a  desolate  moor 
That  breaks,  and  burns,  in  twinkling  green  and  gold, 

3* 


58 


When  Spring  doth  greet  it  with  her  kiss  of  life. 
As  weary  earth  goes  darkling  thro'  the  night, 
So  my  heart  toil'd  on,  tearful  with  its  burthen : 
No  beacon  burn'd  thro'  all  the  gloom,  to  break 
The  surging  sea  of  dark,  with  piers  of  light : 
Then  on  a  sudden  rose  the  blessed  Morn, 
Sun-crown'd  my  life,  made  all  things  beautiful, 
And  gave  the  world  its  Eden-robes  again. 
My  soul  up-sprang  full-statured,  in  the  light, 
Thy  presence  caught  my  heart  up  at  the  leap, 
Wing'd  like  a  young  world  from  the  hands  of  God 
Methought  a  thousand  graves  of  buried  hopes 
Could  crush  it  not  from  its  proud  eminence. 
The  Future's  dim  cloud-curtain  rent  in  twain, 
And  lighteu'd  radiant  revelation  :  All 
Life's  purpose  dawn'd,  as  unto  dying  eyes 
The  dark  of  Death  doth  blossom  into  stars, 
And  since  we  met,  thy  life-long  thought  hath  been 
To  be  cup-bearer  of  the  wine  of  joy 
To  one  leal  heart,  and  to  make  rich  one  life. 
Pulse  after  pulse,  thy  life  hath  surged  in  mine, 
Like  sea-waves  hurrying  up  the  beach  to  crown 
Their  shore,  and  break  in  starry  showers  of  light. 
Thou  hast  brought  radiant  sunrise  every  morn, 
Renewing  all  the  glory  past  away. 
Thy  lavish  love  hath  twined  about  my  life, 
Like  the  lush  Wood-bine  wedded  to  the  Thorn  ; 
Hiding  its  harshness  with  her  wealth  of  flowers  ! 


My  heart  drinks  inspiration  at  thine  eyes, 
And  lights  my  brain  up  as  with  fragrant  flame  : 
Sweet  eyes  of  starry  tenderness,  thro'  which 
The  soul  of  some  immortal  sorrow  looks  ! 
Sorrow  that  addeth  grace  to  loveliness, 
As  its  sad  bloom  enricheth  blushing  fruit. 
Dear  Eyes  !  they  have  a  radiant  Alchemy, 
And  pierce  my  being  with  such  quickening  light 
As  makes  my  heart  a  jewel-mine  of  love  ; 
Even  as  the  Sun  strikes  thro'  the  dark  cold  Earth, 
And  fires  her  million  veins  with  golden  life. 
My  Life  ran  like  a  river  in  rocky  ways, 
And  downward  dasht,  a  sounding  cataract ! 
But  thine  was  like  a  quiet  lake  of  beauty, 
Soft-shadow'd  round  by  gracious  influences, 
That  gathers  silently  the  wealth  of  earth, 
And  woos  heaven  till  it  melts  down  into  it. 
They  mingled  :  and  the  glory,  and  the  calm, 
And  royal-rich  magnificence  of  thy  love, 
Closed  round  me,  brooding  into  perfect  rest, 
And  made  my  heart  rejoice  in  all  thy  joy. 
0  blessings  on  thy  true  and  tender  heart ! 
How  it  hath  gone  forth  like  the  Dove  of  old, 
To  bring  some  leaf  of  promise  in  Life's  deluge  ! 
Thou  hast  a  strong  up-soaring  tendency, 
That  bears  me  god-ward,  as  the  stalwart  oak 
Uplifts  the  clinging  vine,  and  gives  it  growth. 
Thy  reverent  heart  familiarly  doth  tako 


Unconscious  clasp  of  high  and  holy  things, 

Like  little  children  playing  of  old  with  Christ ; 

And  trusteth  where  it  may  not  understand. 

We  have  had  sorrows,  love  !  and  wept  the  tears 

That  run  the  rose-hue  from  the  cheeks  of  Life 

But  Grief  hath  jewels  as  Night  hath  her  stars  I 

And  she  revealeth  what  we  ne'er  had  known, 

With  Joy's  wreath  tumbled  o'er  our  blinded  eyes. 

The  heart  is  like  an  instrument  whose  strings 

Steal  magic  music  from  Life's  mystic  frets  ; 

The  golden  threads  are  spun  thro'  Suffering's  fire, 

Wherewith  the  marriage-robes  for  heaven  are  woven  : 

And  all  the  rarest  hues  of  human  life 

Take  radiance,  and  are  rainbow'd  out  in  tears, 

As  water'd  marble  blooms  a  richer  grain. 

Thou'rt  little  changed,  dear  love  !  since  first  was  wed 

To  mine,  the  blossom  of  thy  crimson  lips  ; 

Thy  beauty  hath  climaxt  like  a  crescent  Moon, 

With  glory  great'ning  to  the  golden  full. 

Thy  flowers  of  spring  are  crown'd  with  summer  fruits, 

And  thou  hast  put  a  queenlier  presence  on 

With  thy  regality  of  Womanhood  ! 

Yet  Time  but  toucheth  thee  with  mellowing  shades 

That  set  thy  graces  in  a  wealthier  light. 

Thy  soul  still  looks  with  its  rare  smile  of  light, 

From  the  Gate  Beautiful  of  its  palace-home, 

Fair  as  the  spirit  of  the  evening  Star 

That  lights  its  glory  as  a  radiant  porch 


To  beacon  earth  with  a  brief  glimpse  of  heaven. 

We  are  poor  in  this  world's  wealth,  but  rich  in  love; 

And  they  who  love  feel  rich  in  every  thing. 

The  heart  of  Ocean — thick  with  gems,  as  earth 

With  blooms — is  jewell'd  like  a  Bride  o'  the  East : 

The  heart  of  Heaven  swarms  with  golden  worlds — 

A  subtle  heart  of  wealth  hath  our  old  world, 

And  darks  of  diamonds,  grand  as  nights  of  stars  : 

But  richer  is  the  human  heart  that  shrines 

God's  peerless  wealth — the  immortal  jewel  Love  ! 

So  let  us  live  our  life  :  and  let  our  love, 

Our  large  twin-love,  bend  o'er  our  little  Babe, 

As  the  calm  grand  old  heavens  bend  over  earth, 

Revealing  God's  own  starry  thoughts  and  things  ! 

So  shall  the  image  of  our  hearts'  Ideal — 

The  angel  nestling  in  her  bud  of  life — 

Smile  upward  in  the  mirror  of  her  face 

A  daily  beauty  in  our  darkened  ways, 

And  a  perpetual  feast  of  holy  things. 

0  let  us  walk  the  world,  so  that  our  love 

Burn  like  a  blessed  beacon,  beautiful ! 

Upon  the  walls  of  Life's  surrounding  dark. 

Ah  !  what  a  world  'twould  be  if  love  like  ours 

Made  heaven  in  human  hearts,  and  clothed  with  smiles 

The  sweet  sad  face  of  our  Humanity  1 

What  lives  should  quicken  into  sudden  spring  ! 

What  flowers  of  glory  burst  their  frozen  soil ! 

Like  the  rod  pulse  of  Dawn  thro'  cold  grey  skies, 


62 


New  life  should  flush  up  in  the  darken'd  face 
That  readeth  as  a  written  epitaph 
Above  the  grave  of  beauty  and  of  soul ! 
Love-light  should  glimmer  on  the  Helot's  brow 
As  mellow  moonlight  silvers  through  a  cloud, 
And  God  should  come  into  the  mirkest  being, 
As  Stars  new-kindled  splendour  nights  of  space. 


THIS  WORLD  IS  FULL  OF  BEAUTY. 

THERE  lives  a  voice  within  me,  a  guest-angel  of  my  heart, 
And  its  sweet  lispings  win  me,  till  the  tears  a-treinbling 

start  ; 

Up  evermore  it  springeth,  like  some  magic  melody, 
And  evermore  it  singeth  this  sweet  song  of  songs  to  me — 
This  world  is  full  of  beauty,  as  other  worlds  above  ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 

Night's  starry  tendernesses  dower  with  glory  evermore, 

Morn's  budding,  bright,  melodious  hour  comes  sweetly  as 
of  yore  ; 

But  there  be  million  hearts  accurst,  where  no  sweet  sun- 
bursts shine, 

And  there  be  million  hearts  athirst  for  Love's  immortal 
wine. 


This  world  is  full  of  beauty,  as  other  worlds  above  ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 

If  faith,  and  hope,  and  kindness  pass'd,  as  coin,  'twixt  heart 

and  heart  ; 
How,  thro'  the  eye's  tear-blindness,  should  the  sudden 

soul  upstart ! 

The  dreary,  dim,  and  desolate,  should  wear  a  sunny  bloom, 
And  Love  should  spring  from  buried  Hate,  like  flowers 

o'er  Winter's  tomb. 

This  world  is  full  of  beauty,  as  other  worlds  above  ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 

With  truth  our  uttered  language,  Angels  might  talk  with 

men, 
And    God-illumined    earth  should   see  the   golden  Age 

again  : 
The  burthen'd  heart  should  soar  in  mirth  like  Morn's 

young  prophet-lark, 
And  Misery's  last  tear  wept  on  earth,  quench  Hell's  last 

cunning  spark. 

For  this  world  is  full  of  beauty,  as  other  worlds  above  ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 

Lo  !  plenty  ripens  round  us,  yet  awakes  the  cry  for  bread, 
The  millions  still  are  toiling,  crusht,  and  clad  in  rags, 
unfed  ! 


While  sunny  hills  and  valleys  richly  blush  with  fruit  and 
grain, 

But  the  paupers  in  the  palace  rob  their  toiling  fellow- 
men. 

This  world  is  full  of  beauty,  as  other  worlds  above  ; 

And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 

Dear  God  !  what   hosts  are  trampled  'mid  this  killing 

crush  for  gold ! 
What  noble  hearts  are  sapp'd  of  love  !  what  spirits  lose 

life's  hold  ! 

Yet  a  merry  world  it  might  be,  opulent  for  all,  and  aye, 
With  its  lands  that  ask  for  labour,  and  its  wealth  that 

wastes  away. 

This  world  is  full  of  beauty,  as  other  worlds  above  ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 

The  leaf-tongues  of  the  forest,  and  the  flow'r-lips  of  the 

sod — 
The  happy  Birds  that  hymn  their  raptures  in  the  ear  of 

God— 

The  summer  wind  that  bringeth  music  over  land  and  sea, 
Have  each  a  voice  that  singeth  this  sweet  song  of  songs 

to  me — 

This  world  is  full  of  beauty,  as  other  worlds  above  ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 


TO  A  BELOVED  ONE. 

HEAVEN  hath  its  crown  of  Stars,  the  Earth 

Her  glory-robe  of  flowers — 
The  Sea  its  gems — the  grand  old  Woods 

Their  songs  and  greening  showers  : 
The  Birds  have  homes,  where  leaves  and  blooms 

In  beauty  wreathe  above  ; 
High  yearning  hearts,  their  rainbow-dream — 

And  we,  Sweet !  we  have  love. 

We  walk  not  with  the  jewell'd  Great, 

Where  Love's  dear  name  is  sold  ; 
Yet  have  we  wealth  we  would  not  give 

For  all  their  world  of  gold  ! 
We  revel  not  in  Corn  and  Wine, 

Yet  have  we  from  above 
Manna  divine,  and  we'll  not  pine  : 

Do  we  not  live  and  love  ? 

There's  sorrow  for  the  toiling  poor, 

On  Misery's  bosom  nurst  ; 
Rich  robes  for  ragged  souls,  and  Crowna 

For  branded  brows  Cain-curst  I 
But  Cherubim,  with  clasping  wings, 

Ever  about  us  be, 
And,  happiest  of  God's  happy  things  1 

There's  love  for  you  and  me. 


Thy  lips,  that  kiss  till  death,  have  turn'd 

Life's  water  into  wine  ; 
The  sweet  life  melting  thro'  thy  looks, 

Hath  made  my  life  divine. 
All  Love's  dear  promise  hath  been  kept, 

Since  thou  to  me  wert  given  ; 
A  ladder  for  my  soul  to  climb, 

And  summer  high  in  heaven, 

I  know,  dear  heart !  that  in  our  lot 

May  mingle  tears  and  sorrow  ; 
But,  Love's  rich  Rainbow's  built  from  tears 

To-day,  with  smiles  To-morrow. 
The  sunshine  from  our  sky  may  die, 

The  greenness  from  Life's  tree, 
But  ever,  'mid  the  warring  storm, 

Thy  nest  shall  shelter'd  be. 

I  see  thee !  Ararat  of  my  life, 

Smiling  the  waves  above  ! 
Thou  hail'st  me  Victor  in  the  strife, 

And  beacon'st  me  with  love, 
The  world  may  never  know,  dear  heart ! 

What  I  have  found  in  thee  ; 
But,  tho'  nought  to  the  world,  dear  heart  I 

Thou'rt  all  the  world  to  me. 


(',7 
HOOD. 

WHO   SANG  THK   SOXQ  OP  THE   SHIKT. 

'Tis  the  old  story  ! — ever  the  blind  world 

Knows  not  its  Angels  of  Deliverance 

Till  they  stand  glorified  'twixt  earth  and  heaven. 

It  stones  the  martyr  :  then,  with  praying  hands, 

Sees  the  God  mount  his  chariot  of  fire, 

And  calls  sweet  names,  and  worships  what  it  spurn'd. 

It  slays  the  Man  to  deify  the  Christ : 

And  then  how  lovingly  'twill  bind  the  brows 

Where  late  its  thorn-crown  laught  with  bloody  lips — 

Red,  and  rejoicing  from  grim  Murder's  kiss  ! 

To  those  who  walk  beside  them,  great  men  seem 

Mere  common  earth  ;  but  distance  makes  them  stars. 

As  dying  limbs  do  lengthen  out  in  death, 

So  grows  the  stature  of  their  after-fame  ; 

And  then  we  gather  up  their  glorious  words, 

And  treasure  up  their  names  with  loving  care. 

So  Hood,  our  Poet,  lived  his  martyr-life  : 

With  a  swift  soul  that  travell'd  at  rare  speed, 

And  struck  such  flashes  from  its  flinty  road, 

That  by  its  trail  of  radiance  through  the  dark, 

We  almost  feature  th'  unknown  Future's  face — 

And  went  uncrown'd  to  bis  untimely  tomb. 

Certes,  the  World  did  praise  his  glorious  Wit — 

The  merry  Jester  with  his  cap  and  bells ! 


68 


And  sooth,  his  wit  was  like  Ithuriel's  spear  ; 

But  'twas  mere  lightning  from  the  cloud  of  his  life, 

Which  held  at  heart  most  rich  and  blessed  rain 

Of  tears  melodious,  that  are  worlds  of  love  ; 

And  Rainbows,  that  would  bridge  from  earth  to  heaven, 

And  Light,  that  would  have  shone  like  Joshua's  sun 

Above  our  long  death-grapple  with  the  Wrong  ; 

And  thunder-voices,  with  their  Words  of  fire, 

To  melt  the  Slave's  chain,  and  the  Tyrant's  crown. 

His  wit  ? — a  kind  smile  just  to  hearten  us ! — 

Rich  foam-wreaths  on  the  waves  of  lavish  life, 

That  flasht  o'er  precious  pearls  and  golden  sands. 

But,  there  was  that  beneath  surpassing  show  ! 

The  starry  soul  that  shines  when  all  is  dark  ! — 

Endurance,  that  can  suffer  and  grow  strong — 

Walk  through  the  world  with  bleeding  feet,  and  smile  ! — 

Love's  inner  light,  that  kindles  Life's  rare  colours  ! 

And  thoughts  that  swathe  Humanity  with  such  glory 

As  limns  the  outline  of  the  coming  God  ; 

And  wine  of  Beauty  for  the  panting  soul. 

In  him  were  gleams  of  such  heroic  splendours 

As  light  this  cold,  dark  world  up  as  a  star 

Array'd  in  glory  for  the  eyes  of  heaven  : 

And  a  great  heart  that  beat  according  music 

With  theirs  of  old — God-likest,  royallest  men  ! 

A  conquering  heart  !  which  Circumstance,  that  frights 

The  Many  down  from  Love's  transfiguring  height, 

Aye  mettled  into  martial  attitude. 


fi9 


He  might  have  clutcht  the  palm  of  Victory 

In  the  world's  wrestling  ring  of  mightiest  deeds  ; 

But  he  went  down  like  a  rich  Argosy 

At  sea,  just  glimmering  into  sight  of  home, 

With  its  rare  freightage  from  diviner  climes. 

The  world  may  never  know  the  wealth  it  lost, 

When  Hood  went  darkling  to  his  tearful  tomb, 

So  mighty  in  his  undevelopt  force  ! 

With  all  his  crowding  unaccomplished  hopes  ! 

Th'  unuttered  wealth  and  glory  of  his  soul  ! 

And  all  the  music  ringing  round  his  life, 

And  poems  stirring  in  his  dying  brain  ! 

O  !  blessings  on  him  for  the  songs  he  sang — 

Which  yearned  about  the  world  till  then  for  birth  ! 

How  like  a  bonny  bird  of  God  he  came, 

And  pour'd  his  heart  in  music  for  the  Poor ; 

Who  sit  in  gloom  while  sunshine  floods  the  land, 

And  feel,  through  darkness,  for  the  hand  of  Help  ! 

And  trampled  Manhood  heard,  and  claimed  his  crown, 

And  trampled  Womanhood  sprang  up  ennobled  ! 

The  human  soul  lookt  radiantly  through  rags  ! 

And  there  was  melting  of  cold  hearts,  as  when 

The  ripening  sunlight  fingers  frozen  flowers. 

0  !  blessings  on  him  for  the  songs  he  sang  ! 

When  all  the  stars  of  happy  thought  had  set 

In  many  a  mind,  his  spirit  walkt  the  gloom 

Clothed  on  with  beauty,  as  the  regal  Moon 

Walks  her  night-kingdom,  turning  clouds  to  light. 


70 


Our  Champion  !  with  his  heart  too  big  to  beat 

In  bonds, — our  Poet  in  his  pride  of  power  1 

Ay,  we'll  remember  him  who  fought  our  fight, 

And  chose  the  Martyr's  robe  of  flame,  and  spurn'd 

The  gold  and  purple  of  the  glistering  slave. 

His  Mausoleum  is  the  People's  heart, 

There  he  lies  crown'd  and  glorified, — our  King 

In  state,  with  singing  robe  wrapt  richly  round. 

But  'tis  not  meet,  my  England,  his  dear  dust 

Should  lie  where  splendid  flatteries  flaunt  on  tombs, 

As  treachery  serves  to  brighten  wanton  tears — 

With  not  a  line  of  letter'd  love  to  tell 

What  mighty  heart  lies  quencht  and  broken  there. 

So  let  us  build  our  Poet's  monument ! 

With  passionate  hearts  of  love  for  corner-stones, 

And  tears  that  temper  for  immortal  fame. 

And  it  were  well,  my  England,  shouldst  thou  come 

To  weep  some  honest  drops  above  his  grave. 

Our  Hood  is  worthier  of  eternal  praise 

And  blessings,  and  dear  heart-immunities, 

Than  warrior  Wellington,  who  rode  to  fame 

On  Death's  white  horse  by  Battle's  crimson  path. 


71 


THE  SINGER. 

UP  out  of  the  Corn  the  Lark  caroll'd  in  light, 

Like  a  new  splendour  sprung  from  the  dark  husk  of  Night, 

Green  light  shimmer'd  laughing  o'er  forest  and  sod  ; 

The  rich  sky  was  full  of  the  presence  of  God, 

As  with  brave  careless  rapture  he  lavisht  around 

Rare  violet  fancies  and  rose-leaves  of  sound  : 

All  thro'  the  Morn's  sun-city  sea-like  his  psalm 

With  melodious  waves  dasht  the  bright  world  of  calm  : 

BUT  HEAVILY  HUNG  THE  DROOPT  EARS  OP  THE  CORN  : 

THEY  WERE  GATHERING  GOLD  IN  THE  DEWY  MORN. 

And  he  sang,  as  on  heaven's  fire-grains  he  had  fed, 
Till  his  heart's  merry  wine  had  made  drunken  his  head. 
How  he  sang  !  as  his  honey  in  Life's  cells  ne'er  dwindled, 
And  beale-fires  of  Joy  on  all  Life's  hills  were  kindled  : 
O  !  he  sang,  as  he  felt  that  to  singing  was  given 
The  magic  to  build  rainbow-stairways  to  heaven  ! 
And  he  could  not  have  sung  with  more  lusty  cheer, 
Had  all  the  world  listened  a-tiptoe  to  hear  1 
ALL  THE  WHILE  HEAVILY  HUNG  THE  CORN, 
AND   ITS   DROWSY  EARS   HEARD    NOT  THE    SWEETHEART  OF 
MORN. 


T-T, 


ICHABOD. 

SEVEN  Summers'  Suns  have  set  !  and  earth  is  once  more 

sweetly  flooded 
With  fragrance,  for  the  virgin-leaves  and  violet-banks  have 

budded : 
Heaven  claspeth  Earth,  as  round  the  heart  first  broodeth 

Love's  rich  glow  ; 
A  blush  of  Flowers  is  mantling  where  the  lush  green 

grasses  grow  ! 
All  things  feel  summering  sunward,  golden  tides  flood 

down  the  air, 

Which  burns,  as  Angel-visitants  had  left  a  glory  there  ! 
But  darkness  on  my  aching  spirit   shrouds  the  merry 

shine, — 
I  long  to  feel  a  gush  of  Spring  in  this  poor  heart  of  mine. 

Morn  opes  Heaven's  opal  portal,  back  the  golden  gates 

are  drawn, 

And  all  the  fields  of  glory  blossom  with  the  crimson  Dawn : 
But  never  comes  thy  clasping  hand,  or  carol  of  thy  lips, 
That  made  my  heart  sing  like   a  God,  when  bursting 

Death's  eclipse. 
Sweet  voice  !  it  came  like  saintly  music,  quiring  angels 

make, 
When  pain  sat  heavy  on  my  brow,  and  heart  was  like  to 

break  : 


73 


Methought  such  love  gave  wings  to  climb  some  starry 

thorne  to  win  ; 
Thou  didst  so  lift  my  life's  horizon — letting  heaven  in. 


I'm  thinking,  darling,  of  the  days  when  life  was  all  divine, 
And  love  was  aye  the  silver  chord  that  bound  my  heart 

to  thine  ; 
When  life  bloom'd  at  thy  coming,  as  the  green  earth  greets 

the  sun, 
And,  like  two  dew-drops  in  a  kiss,  our  twin  souls  wed  in 

one. 
Ah  !  still  I  feel  ye  at  my  heart !  and,  'mid  the  stir  and 

strife, 

5Te  sometimes  lead  my  feet  to  walk  the  angel-side  of  Life  ! 
The  magic  music  yearns  within,  as  unto  thee  I  turn, 
ind  those  brave  eyes,  a-blaze  with  soul,  thro'  all  my 

being  burn. 


3ome  back, — come  back  ;  I  long  to  clasp  thee  in  these 

arms,  mine  own  ! 
javish  my  heart  upon  thy  lips,  and  make  my  love  the 

Crown 
^nd  Arc  of  Triumph  to  thy  life.     "Why  tarry  ?    Time 

hath  cast 
Jtrange  shadows  on  my  spirit  since  we  met  and  mingled 

last! 

4 


74 


Yet  there  be  joys  to  crown  thee  with,  the  sunshine  and 

the  sweet 
Are  hived,  like  honey,  in  my  heart,  to  share  them  when 

we  meet : 

How  I  have  hoarded  up  my  life  !  how  tenderly  I  strove 
To  make  my  heart  fit  home  for  thee,  its  nestling  Bird  of 

love  ! 

God  bless  thee  !  once  the  radiant  world  thy  beauty  crown- 
like  wore, 

But  life  hath  lost  a  tender  grace  that  cometh  never  more  ! 

The  flowers  will  bud  again  in  spring,  and  happy  birds  make 
love, 

With  melting  hearts,  a-brooding  o'er  their  passion  in  the 
grove. 

But  thou  wilt  never  more  come  back,  to  clothe  my  heart 
with  Spring  : 

Dear  God  !  Love's  sweetest  chord  is  turn'd  to  Pain's 
most  jarring  string ! 

The  Glory  hath  departed  !  and  my  spirit  pants  to  go 

Where  'mid  Life's  troubled  waters,  'twill  not  see  the 
wreck  below. 


75 


NOT  LOST,  BUT  GONE  BEFORE. 

ONE   of  God's  own  Darlings   was  my  bosom's   nestling 

Dove, 
With  her  looks  of  love  and  sunshine,  and  her  voice  so  rich 

and  low: 
How  it  trembled  thro'  my  life,  like  an  Immortal's  kiss  of 

love! 
How  its  music  yearns  thro'  all  my  memory  now  ! 

0 1  her  beauty  rainbows  round  me,  and  her  sweet  smile, 

silverly 
As  a  song,  fills  all  the  silence  of  the  Midnight's  charmed 

hours : 
And  I  know  from  out  her  grave  she'll  send  her  love  in 

death  to  me, 
By  the  Spring,  in  smiling  utterance  of  Flowers. 


0 !  my  Love,  too  good  for  Earth,  has  gone  into  the  world 

of  light ; 
It  was  hard,  she  said,  to  leave  me,  but  the  Lord  had  need 

of  her  ; 
And  she  walks  the  heaven  in  glory,  like  a  Star  i'  the 

crown  of  Night, 
With  the  Beautiful  and  Blessed  mingling  there. 


76 


Gone  before  ine,  to  be  clothed  on  with  bridal  robe  of 
white, 

"Where  Love's  blossom  flowers  to  fruit  of  knowledge, — 
Suffering's  glorified  ! 

And  my  love  shall  make  me  meet  and  worthy  of  her  pre- 
sence bright, 

That  in  heaven  I  may  claim  her  as  my  Bride. 


THE  CHIVALRY  OF  LABOUR, 

UPROUSE  ye  now,  brave  brother-band, 
With  honest  heart,  and  working  hand  ; 
We  are  but  few,  toil-tried,  and  true, 
Yet  hearts  beat  high  to  dare  and  do  ; 
And  who  would  not  a  champion  be 
In  Labour's  lordlier  Chivalry  ? 
We  fight  1  but  bear  no  bloody  brand, 
We  fight  to  free  our  Fatherland  : 
We  fight  that  smiles  of  love  may  glow 
On  lips  where  curses  quiver  now  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  true  Knights  are  we 
In  Labour's  lordlier  Chivalry. 

0  !  there  be  hearts  that  ache  to  see 
The  day-dawn  of  our  victory ; 


Eyes  full  of  heart-break  with  us  plead, 
And  "Watchers  weep  and  Martyrs  bleed  : 
0  !  who  would  not  a  Champion  be 
In  Labour's  lordlier  Chivalry  ? 

Work,  Brothers  mine  ;  work,  hand  and  brain  ; 

We'll  win  the  Golden  Age  again  : 

And  Love's  Millennial  morn  shall  rise 

In  happy  hearts,  and  blessed  eyes. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  true  Knights  are  we 

111  Labour's  lordlier  Chivalry. 


THE  CHIVALRY  OF  LABOUR  EXHORTED  TO 
THE  WORSHIP  OF  BEAUTY. 

OUR  world  oft  turns  in  gloom,  and  Life  hath  many  a  peril- 
ous way, 

Yet  there's  no  path  so  desolate  and  thorny,  cold  and 
gray, 

But  Beauty  like  a  Beacon  burns  above  the  dark  of  strife, 

And  like  an  Alchemist  aye  turns  all  things  to  golden  life. 

On  human  hearts  her  presence  droppeth  precious  manna 
down, 

On  human  brows  her  glory  gathers  like  a  coming  crown  : 


78 


Her  smile  lights  up  Life's  troubled  stream,  and  Love,  the 

swimmer  !  lives  ; 

And  0  'tis  brave  to  battle  for  the  guerdon  that  she  gives! 
Then  let  us  worship  Beauty  with  the  knightly  faith  of  old, 
O  Chivalry  of  Labour  toiling  for  the  Age  of  Gold  ! 

The  first-fruits  of  the  Past  at  Beauty's  shrine  are  offer'd  up, 
From  which  a  vintage  meet  for  Gods  she  crusheth  in  her 

cup  : 
And  from  the  living  Present  doth  she  press  the  rare  new 

wine, 

To  glad  the  hearts  of  all  her  lovers  with  a  draught  divine. 
Earth's  crowning  miracle  !  she  comes  !  with  blessing  lips, 

that  part 
Like  mid-May's  rose  flusht  open  with  the  fragrance  of  her 

heart  : 
And  life  turns  to  her  colour — kindles  with  her  light — like 

flowers 
That  garner  up  the  golden  fire,  and  suck  the  mellow 

showers. 

Come  let  us  worship  Beauty  with  the  knightly  faith  of  old, 
0  Chivalry  of  Labour  toiling  for  the  Age  of  Gold  1 

Come  let  us  worship  Beauty  where  the  budding  Spring 

doth  flower, 
And  lush  green  leaves  and  grasses  flush  out  sweeter  every 

hour  ; 


79 


Or  Summer's  tide  of  splendour  floods  the  lap  o'  the  World 

once  more, 

With  riches  like  a  sea  that  surges  jewels  on  its  shore. 
Come  feel  her  ripening  influence  when  Morning  feasts  our 

eyes — 

Thro'  open  gates  of  glory • — with  a  glimpse  of  Paradise  : 
Or  queenly  Night  sits  crowned,  smiling  down  the  purple 

gloom, 
And  Stars,  like  Heaven's  fruitage,  melt  i'  the  glory  of  their 

bloom. 

Come  let  us  worship  Beauty  with  the  knightly  faith  of  old, 
0  Chivalry  of  Labour  toiling  for  the  Age  of  Gold  ! 


Come  from  the  den  of  darkness  and  the  city's  soil  of  sin, 
Put  on  your  radiant  Manhood,  and  the  Angel's  blessing  win  1 
Where  wealthier  sualight  comes  from  Heaven,  like  wel- 
come-smiles of  God, 
And  Earth's  blind  yearnings  leap  to  life  in  flowers,  from 

out  the  sod  : 

Come  worship  Beauty  in  the  forest-temple,  dim  and  hush, 
Where  stands  Magnificence  dreaming  !  and  God  burneth 

in  the  bush  : 
Or  where  the  old  hills  worship  with  their  silence  for  a 

psalm, 

Or  ocean's  weary  heart  doth  keep  the  sabbath  of  its  cairn. 
Come  let  us  worship  Beauty  with  the  knightly  faith  of  old, 
0  Chivalry  of  Labour  toiling  for  the  Age  of  Gold  ! 


Come  let  us  worship  Beauty :  she  hath  subtle  power  to  start 
Heroic  word  and  deed  out-flashing  from  the  humblest  heart: 
Great  feelings  will  gush  unawares,  and  freshly  as  the  first 
Rich  Rainbow  that  up  startled  Heaven  in  tearful  splendour 

burst. 

0  blessed  are  her  lineaments,  and  wondrous  are  her  ways 
To  repicture  God's  worn  likeness  in  the  suffering  human 

face  ! 

Our  bliss  shall  richly  overbrim  like  sunset  in  the  west, 
And  we  shall  dream  immortal  dreams  and  banquet  with 

the  Blest. 

Then  let  us  worship  Beauty  with  the  knightly  faith  of  old, 
O  Chivalry  of  Labour  toiling  for  the  Age  of  Gold  1 


WHEN  I  COME  HOME. 

AROUND  me  Life's  hell  of  fierce  Ardours  burns, 
When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home  ; 
Over  me  Heaven  with  her  starry  heart  yearns, 

When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home. 
For  the  feast  of  Gods  garnisht,  the  palace  of  Xight 
At  a  thousand  star-windows  is  throbbing  with  light. 
London  makes  mirth  !  but  I  know  God  hears 
The  sobs  i'  the  dark,  and  the  dropping  of  tears  ; 


81 


For  I  feel  that  he  listens  down  Night's  great  dome — 

When  I  corne  home,  when  I  come  home, 
Home,  home,  when  I  come  home, 
Far  i'  the  night  when  I  come  home. 


I  walk  under  Night's  triumphal  arch, 

When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home, 
Exulting  with  life  like  a  Conqueror's  march, 
When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home. 
I  pass  by  the  rich-chamber'd  mansions  that  shine, 
Overflowing  with  splendour  like  goblets  with  wine  : 
I  have  fought,  I  have  vanquisht,  the  dragon  of  Toil, 
And  before  me  my  golden  Hesperides  smile  ! 
And  0  but  Love's  flowers  make  rich  the  gloom, 
When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home  ! 
Home,  home,  when  I  come  home, 
Far  i'  the  night  when  I  come  home. 


O  the  sweet,  merry  mouths  up-turn'd  to  be  kist, 

When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home ! 
How  the  younglings  yearn  from  the  hungry  nest, 

When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home  ! 
My  weary  worn  heart  into  sweetness  is  stirr'd, 
And  it  dances  and  sings  like  a  singing  Bird, 
On  the  branch  nighest  heaven, — a-top  of  my  life  : 
As  I  clasp  thee,  my  winsome,  wooing  Wife  ! 
4* 


And  thy  pale  cheek  with  rich,  tender  passion  doth  bloom 
When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home, 

Home,  home,  when  I  come  home, 

Far  P  the  night  when  I  come  home. 

Clouds  furl  off  the  shining  face  of  my  life, 

When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home, 
And  leave  heaven  bare  on  thy  bosom,  sweet  Wife  ! 

When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home. 
With  her  smiling  Energies, — Faith  warm  and  bright,— 
With  Love  glory-crowii'd  and  serenely  alight — 
With  her  womanly  beauty  and  queenly  calm, 
She  steals  to  my  heart  with  her  blessing  of  balm  ; 
And  0  but  the  wine  of  love  sparkles  with  foam, 
When  I  come  home,  when  I  come  home  ! 

Home,  home,  when  I  come  home  ! 

Far  i'  the  night  when  I  come  home. 


THE  THREE   SPIRITS. 

THEY  were  three  Spirits  fresh  from  God's  own  hand, 

And  beautifuller  ne'er  took  mortal  mould, 

They  had  worn  vestures  of  the  undefilcd, 

At  spirit-spousal s  sang  the  nuptial  song, 

Sat  clown  with  Gods  and  Heroes,  held  high  converse 


Witli  Milton  and  the  mighty  men  of  old, 

Divine  old  Socrates  and  deathless  sages, 

The  martyr'd  Prophets  and  the  warrior-saints, 

Who  fought  as  we  do  now,  and  wrestled  down 

Doubt's  grim  despairs,  with  pangs  and  quenchless  faith. 

Glory  tiara'd.  their  immortal  brows, 

Their  lips  were  yet  alive  with  seraph-fire, 

And  locks  bedropt  rich  dews  of  Paradise  : 

They  lookt  a  fore-taste  and  fore-feel  of  heaven 

Christ-like  they  came  to  wear  old  Earth's  life-harness, 

And  yoke  their  fiery  sun-steeds  in  her  farrows. 

They  came  to  battle,  toil  in  tears,  and  pray, 

"  Our  Father,"  with  the  family  of  Men. 

'Twas  midnight  in  the  husht  and  moonlit  land, 

The  heavens  had  on  their  silver  robe  of  stars, 

And  earth  had  on  her  silver  robe  of  dew, 

When  they  first  lookt  like  smiles  of  God,  through  eyes 

Where  struggling  heaven-light  shone  half-drown'd  in  tears, 

As  rainy  sunbeams  strike  a  watery  world. 

They  grew  sweet  babes,  where  fond  hearts  set  Love's 

throne, 

Heaven  breathed  about  them,  Angels  sang  to  them, 
And  joy  was  with  them  in  their  innocence. 
Their  dawn  of  being  broaden'd  into  day, 
And  they  had  sprung  to  Manhood  unawares. 
The  lusty  blood  ran  brave  fire  in  their  veins. 
Life's  surging  waves,  with  them,  were  at  mad-plunge, 
And  plongh'd  tho  passionate1  he:irt  with  tempest-beat. 


Then  high  thoughts  burst  like  battle  on  their  souls, 

Rousing  and  stern  as  in  the  noon  of  night 

The  clarion's  clangour  smites  a  sleeping  host  ! 

And  gorgeous  Visions,  glory-clad,  swept  by. 

Sinew  and  thew  were  strung  to  win  at  least 

The  table-laud  that  girds  the  mount  of  Fame. 

And  one  went  down  to  moil  in  Mammon's  mine, 

For  love  of  Gold  ;  thenceforth  in  his  warpt  heart, 

The  Devil  at  death-grips  set  himself  to  God, 

And  day  by  day  worm'd  out  some  trace  divine  ! 

Day  unto  day,  Gold  rotted  out  the  soul. 

Still  he  toil'd  on  for  Gold,  sweet !  damning  Gold  ! 

The  poor  man's  sweat,  and  tears,  and  blood,  congeal'd  ; 

And  he  waxt  wealthy  !  all  around  him  rose 

The  hoarded  heaps,  like  trophies  after  battle, 

Or  tribute-treasure  flung  at  Monarchs'  feet. 

He  turn'd  to  what  he  fed  on,  dust  to  dust ; 

The  angel-plumes  once  moulted,  grew  no  more  ! 

The  God  dwarft  in  him,  and  his  heart  was  hoary 

Before  Time's  silver  mark  had  blancht  his  brow. 

And  one  up-reared  a  fame  which  stood  apart 

In  the  world's  gaze,  as  'mid  old  Tadmor's  ruins 

Some  column  loometh  in  the  eye  of  sunset. 

He  crown'd  with  a  beacon-fire  the  reef  which  wreckt 

The  mighty  of  all  time.     His  marvellous  name 

Moved  men's  tongues  regally  as  Euroclydon, 

The  storm-wind  !  wakes  the  voices  of  old  ocean. 

Leviathnn  of  blood  !  what  crimson  sens 


He  spilt  to  revel  in  ;  his  path  to  empire 

Was  wasted  hearts  and  desolated  lands. 

The  other  trode  the  world's  face  poor  as  Christ, 

Drank  gall  and  wormwood  ;  lived  Gethsemane, 

In  many  a  midnight  solitude  of  heart ! 

Loved,  hoped,  and  nurst  large  faith  in  human-kind, 

Wept  glorious  tears  that  telescope  the  soul, 

And  bring  heaven  nearer  to  the  eyes  of  Faith  ! 

The  hounds  of  hell  bay'd  at  him,  hoary  Evil 

Breathed  blighting  influence  on  his  heart, 

To  turn  it  to  a  Upas-tree,  and  kill 

All  nestling  birds  of  love.     With  tears  and  travail 

He  walkt  the  furnace,  trode  Earth's  stony  ways, 

And  beat  his  rugged  path  with  bleeding  feet. 

Yet  nought  bore  down  his  heart,  or  blencht  his  faith, 

And  many  a  cloud-rift  radiantly  rent, 

Dropt  blessing  dear  as  parted  lips  of  love. 

From  suffering  he  won  strength  to  throw  the  world  ; 

And  when  the  fight  ran  sorest,  his  roused  spirit 

Went  forth  a  Conqueror  !  wrapt  in  robes  of  victory. 

Amid  the  mirk  and  mire,  he  kept  his  heart 

A  temple  for  the  Beautiful !  all  warm 

And  bright,  with  blessed  light  of  Love,  that  window 

Of  our  dim  life,  which  ever  opes  on  God ! 

He  trimmed  Love's  lamp  in  poor  men's  hearts  and  homes, 

And  in  the  world's  waste  places  his  life  blossom'd. 

So  each  built  up  a  life.     Time's  scaffolding 

Fell  from  thorn,  and  tliov  ?toorl  in  God's  eve  bare  ! 


Into  the  silent  land,  they  pass'd  the  Grave, 

Which  Spring  had  made  a  beautiful  gate  of  flowers  ; 

On  wings  of  wonder  won  the  starry  threshold 

Of  God,  where  like  to  like  is  gauged  and  garnered. 

They  stood  where  Paradise  uprear'd  its  portals, 

And  shook  down  splendours,  palpitated  bliss — 

Like  a  town  full  of  triumph — heart  of  love. 

O  in  that  hour  how  shook  the  rich  man's  soul  ! 

He  stood  there  beggar'd,  poorest  of  the  poor  ! 

Gold  would  not  purchase  heaven  ;  and  if  it  might, 

Eternity  ran  'twixt  him  and  his  riches  : 

And  he  went  wailing  with  his  world  of  woe. 

The  other  had  gambled  for  a  life,  and  lost, 

Let  slip  his  chance  for  an  eternity  ! 

For  fame,  had  barter'd  an  immortal  birthright  ; 

For  name  on  Earth  had  sold  Heaven's  heritage  ; 

And  there  the  gates  of  glory  on  him  closed. 

The  poor  man  came,  and  his  meek  tearful  eyes 

Grew  luminous,  as  lit  with  sudden  sun. 

Divinity  leapt  up  full-statured,  when 

His  life  burst  its  worn  manacle  of  clay, 

And  wore  God's  splendour  round  it  like  a  raiment. 

Throbbing  with  glory  like  a  midnight  star, 

All  heaven  was  husht  to  hear  the  Lord's  "Well  done." 

Then  shining  hosts  and  quiring  orbs  sang  "Welcome," 

And  angels  crown'd  him  in  their  Capitol. 

For  in  his  heart  he  kept  God's  image  bright. 

Love  wns  his  life-blood.     Thro'  the  loner  work-day — •• 


The  dark  and  terrible  night-time — nye,  to  death, 

He  nurst  his  love  :  and  God  himself  is  love. 

And  there  be  none  of  all  the  poorest  poor 

That  walk  the  world,  worn  heart-bare,  none  so  poor 

But  they  may  bring  a  little  human  love 

To  mend  the  world.     And  God  himself  is  love. 


TO-DAY   AND  TO-MORROW. 

HIGH  hopes  that  burn'd  like  stars  sublime, 

Go  down  i'  the  Heavens  of  Freedom  ; 
And  true  hearts  perish  in  the  time 

We  bitterliest  need  'era  ! 
But  never  sit  we  down  and  say 

There's  nothing  left  but  sorrow  : 
We  walk  the  Wilderness  To-day, 

The  Promised  Land  To-morrow. 

Our  birds  of  song  are  silent  now, 

There  are  no  flowers  blooming  ; 
Yet  life  beats  in  the  frozen  bough, 

And  Freedom's  Spring  is  coining  ! 
And  Freedom's  tide  comes  up  alway, 

Tho'  we  may  stand  in  sorrow  : 
And  our  good  Bark,  a-ground  To-day, 

Shall  float  nffain  To-morrow. 


Thro'  all  the  long,  dark  night  of  years 

The  People's  cry  ascendeth, 
And  Earth  is  wet  with  blood  and  tears 

But  our  meek  sufferance  endeth  ! 
The  Few  shall  not  for  ever  sway, 

The  Many  moil  in  sorrow  : 
The  Powers  of  Hell  are  strong  To-day, 

But  Christ  shall  rise  To-morrow. 


Tho'  hearts  brood  o'er  the  Past,  our  eyes 

With  smiling  Futures  glisten  ! 
For,  lo  I  our  day  bursts  up  the  skies  : 

Lean  out  your  souls  and  listen  ! 
The  world  rolls  Freedom's  radiant  way, 

And  ripens  with  her  sorrow  : 
Keep  heart !  who  bear  the  Cross  To-day, 

Shall  wear  the  Crown  To-morrow. 


O  Youth  !  flame-earnest,  still  aspire, 

With  energies  immortal  ! 
To  many  a  heaven  of  Desire, 

Our  yearning  opes  a  portal ! 
And  tho'  Age  wearies  by  the  way, 

And  hearts  break  in  the  furrow, 
We'll  sow  the  golden  grain  To-day, — 

The  Harvest  comes  To-morrow. 


89 


Build  up  heroic  lives,  and  all 

Be  like  a  sheathen  sabre, 
Ready  to  flash  out  at  God's  call, 

0  Chivalry  of  Labour  ! 
Triumph  and  Toil  are  twins  :  and  aye 

Joy  suns  the  cloud  of  Sorrow  ; 
And  'tis  the  martyrdom  To-day, 

Brings  victory  To-morrow. 


HUSBAND  AND   WIFE. 

0  PROUDLY  I  stood  in  the  rare  Sunrise, 

As  the  dawn  of  your  beauty  brake  ; 
But  I  fear'd  for  the  storm,  as  I  lookt  at  the  skies, 

And  trembled  for  your  sweet  sake  ! 
And  0,  may  the  evil  days  come  not,  I  said, 

As  I  yearn'd  o'er  my  tender  blossom  ! 
Strong  arm  of  love  !  shelter  the  dear  one's  head  : 

And  I  nestled  you  in  my  bosom. 
May  the  tears  never  dim  the  love-light  of  her  eye,- 

May  her  Life  be  all  Spring-weather ! — 
Was  the  prayer  of  my  heart,  ere  you,  Love,  and  I, 

Were  Husband  and  Wife  together. 


90 


But  the  suns  will  shine,  and  the  rains  will  fall, 

On  the  loftiest,  lowliest  spot ! 
And  there's  mourning  and  merriment  mingled  for  all 

That  inherit  the  human  lot. 
So  we've  suffer'd  and  sorrow'd  and  grown  more  strong, 

Heart-to-heart,  side-by-side,  we  have  striven, 
With  the  love  that  makes  summer-tide  all  the  year  long, 

And  the  heart  that  is  its  own  heaven  ! 
We  clung  the  more  close  as  the  storm  swept  by, 

And  kept  the  nest  warm  in  cold  weather : 
And  seldom  we've  falter'd  since  you,  Love,  and  I, 

Have  been  Husband  and  Wife  together  ! 

Like  the  sweet  wild  flowers  of  the  wilderness, 

You  have  dwelt  life  to  life  with  Nature  ; 
And  caught  the  wild  beauty  and  grace  of  her  ways, 

And  grown  to  her  heavenlier  stature  1 
In  golden  calm,  and  in  quickening  strife, 

Hath  your  wromaiily  worth  unfoldcn  : 
And  sunshine  and  show'r  have  enricht  your  life, 

And  ripen'd  its  harvest  golden. 
There  is  good  in  the  grimmest  cloud  o'  the  sky, 

There  are  blessings  in  wintry  weather  : 
Even  Grief  hath  its  glory,  since  you,  Love,  and  I, 

Have  been  Husband  and  Wife  together. 

0,  Life  is  not  perfect  with  Love's  first  kiss  : 
Who  would  win  the  blessing  must  wrestle  ; 


91 


And  the  deeper  the  sorrow,  the  dearer  the  bliss, 

That  in  its  rich  core  may  nestle  I 
Our  Angels  oft  greet  us  in  tearful  guise, 

And  our  saviours  come  in  sorrow  : 
"While  the  murkiest  midnight  that  frowns  from  the  skies. 

Is  at  heart  a  radiant  Morrow  ! 
We  laugh  and  we  cry,  we  sing  and  we  sigh, 

And  life  will  have  wintry  weather  ! 
So  we'll  hope,  and  love  on,  since  you,  Love,  and  I, 

Are  Husband  and  Wife  together. 


NO  JEWELLED   BEAUTY  IS  MY  LOVE. 

No  jewelled  Beauty  is  my  Love, 

Yet  in  her  earnest  face 
There's  such  a  world  of  tenderness, 

She  needs  no  other  grace. 
Her  smiles,  and  voice,  around  my  life 

In  light  and  music  twine, 
And  dear,  0  very  dear  to  me. 

Is  this  sweet  Love  of  mine. 

0  joy  !  to  know  there's  one  fond  heart, 

Beats  ever  true  to  me  : 
It  sets  mine  leaping  like  a  lyre, 

In  sweetest  melody  : 


92 

My  soul  up-spriugs,  a  Deity  I 
To  hear  her  voice  divine, 

And  dear,  0  very  dear  to  me, 
Is  this  sweet  Love  of  mine. 

If  ever  I  have  sigh'd  for  wealth, 

'Twas  all  for  her,  I  trow  ; 
And  if  I  win  Fame's  victor-wrath, 

I'll  twine  it  on  her  brow. 
There  may  be  forms  more  beautiful, 

And  souls  of  sunnier  shine, 
But  none,  0  none,  so  dear  to  me, 

As  this  sweet  Love  of  mine. 


THE  KIMLIEST   KINGS 

Ho  !  ye  who  in  a  noble  work 

Win  scorn,  as  flames  draw  air, 
And  in  the  way  where  Lions  lurk, 

God's  image  bravely  bear  ; 
Tho'  trouble-tried,  and  torture-torn, 
The  kingliest  Kings  are  crown'd  with  thorn. 

Life's  glory,  like  the  bow  in  heaven, 
Still  springeth  from  the  cloud  ; 
And  soul  ne'er  soar'd  the  starry  Seven, 
But  Pain's  fire-chariot  rode. 


They've  battled  best  who've  boldliest  borne, 
The  kindliest  Kings  are  crown'd  with  thorn. 


The  Martyr's  fire-crown  on  the  brow 

Doth  into  glory  burn  : 
And  tears  that  from  Love's  torn  heart  flow, 

To  pearls  of  spirit  turn. 
Our  dearest  hopes  in  pangs  are  born, 
The  kingliest  Kings  are  crown'd  with  thorn. 


As  beauty  in  Death's  cerement  shrouds, 

And  otars  bejewel  Night, 
God-splendours  live  in  dim  heart-clouds, 

And  suffering  worketh  might, 
The  mirkiest  hour  is  mother  o'  Morn, 
The  kingliest  Kings  are  crown'd  with  thorn. 


MARTYRS  FOR  HUNGARY  AND  ROME, 
1850. 

THEY  are  gone  ! 
When  on  earthquake-edge  they  slumbered, 

Who  have  man  accurst  ; 
And  Hope's  blossoms,  many-numbered, 

Into  flower  burst  ; 

When  our  hearts,  like  throbbing  drums, 
Beat  for  Freedom  ;  sang,  She  comes  ! 
God  1  they  stumbled  among  tombs. 

They  are  gone  ! 
Freedom's  strong  ones,  young  and  hoary, 

Beautiful  in  faith  ! 
And  her  first  dawn-blush  of  glory 

Gilds  their  camp  of  death  ! 
There  they  lie  in  shrouds  of  blood  ; 
Murder'd  where  for  Right  they  stood — 
Murder'd,  Christ-like,  doing  good. 

They  are  gone  ! 
And  'tis  good  to  die  up-giving 

Valour's  vengeful  breath, 
To  make  Heroes  of  the  living, — 

Thus  divine  is  death. 


One  by  one,  dear  hearts  1  they've  left  us, 
Yet  Hope  hath  not  all  bereft  us  : 
Still  we  man  the  breach  they  cleft  us. 

They  are  here  ! 
Here,  where  life  ran  ruddy  rain, 

When  power  from  God  seem'd  wrencht 
Here,  where  tears  fall — molten  brain  1 

And  hands  are  agony-clencht  ! 
Look,  Love  lifts  the  veil  ;  ah !  now 
There's  glory,  where  the  glow 
Of  Pain's  fire-crown  seam'd  each  brow. 

They  are  here  ! 
In  the  Etna  of  each  heart, 

Where  Vengeance  laughs  hell-mirth, 
In  the  silent  tears  that  start 

O'er  their  glorious  worth  1 
Tears  ?  ay,  tears  of  fire,  proud  Weepers  ! 
For  these  soul-sepultured  sleepers  : 
Fire  !  to  smite  Death's  blood-seed  reapers. 

They  are  here  ! 
With  us  in  the  march  of  time, 

Beating  at  our  side  ! 
Let  us  live  their  lives  sublime, 

Die  as  they  have  died  1 


96 


Wait :  these  Martyrs  yet  shall  come, 
Myriad-fold,  from  their  heart-tomb  ! 
In  the  Tyrant's  day  of  doom. 


LOVE  ME. 

"  ALL  dear  as  the  feeling  when  first-flowers  start, 

Thou  cam'st  in  thy  musical  lightness  : 
And  the  cloud  wept  itself  in  rich  rain  on  my  heart, 

That  had  hidden  thy  beauty  and  brightness. 
'Twas  as  Life's  topmost  window  oped  suddenly,  bright 

With  the  glittering  face  of  an  Angel, 
The  sweet  secret  out-flasht  on  thy  forehead  of  light, 

And  I  knew  thee,  my  own  love-Evangel ! 
O  how  shall  I  crown  thee,  Love,  on  my  heart's  throne, 

Thou  art  so  far,  far  above  me  ?" 
And  aye  as  her  dear  eyes  lookt  love  in  mine  own, 

The  Maiden  answered,  "  Love  me." 


"  My  Beloved  is  fair  as  some  beautiful  star 

That  walks  in  an  air  of  glory  : 
And  her  large-hearted  looks  and  her  lineaments  are 

As  Some  Queen's  of  the  old  Greek -story  ! 


97 


There's  never  night  now,  since  those  dear  eyes  of  thine 

Smiled  on  me  their  soft  sweet  splendour, 
And  I  drank  of  the  wine  of  thy  kisses  divine  : 

0  what  for  such  love  shall  I  render  ?" 
And  aye,  as  I  knelt  at  my  true  Love's  shrine, 

She  bent  in  her  beauty  above  me  : 
And  aye,  as  her  sweet  eyes  lookt  love  into  mine, 

The  Maiden  answered,  "  Love  me." 

"  0  could  my  heart,  mountain-region'd  in  bliss, 

Thy  life  with  Love's  affluence  dower, 
Thou  should'st  have  heaven  in  a  world  e'en  like  this, 

And  the  joy  of  a  life  in  each  hour  ! 
Thou  should'st  go  forth  like  a  conquering  queen, 

Reaping  rich  heartfuls  of  treasure, 
Xor  strive  where  the  worn  of  heart  wearily  glean 

But  handfuls,  in  harvesting  pleasure." 
And  aye,  as  I  knelt  at  my  true  Love's  shrine, 

She  bent  in  her  beauty  above  me  : 
And  aye,  as  her  sweet  eyes  lookt  love  into  mine, 

The  Maiden  answered,  "Love  me." 


98 


LOVE'S  FAIRY  RING. 

WHILE  Titans  war  with  social  Jove, 

My  own  sweet  wife  and  I 
We  make  Elysium  in  our  love, 

And  let  the  world  go  by  ! 
0  never  hearts  beat  half  so  light 

With  crowned  Queen  or  King  ! 
0  never  world  was  half  so  bright 

As  is  our  fairy-riug, 

Dear  love  1 

Our  hallowed  fairy-ring. 

Our  world  of  empire  is  not  large, 

But  priceless  wealth  it  holds  ; 
A  little  heaven  links  marge  to  marge, 

But  what  rich  realms  it  folds ! 
And  clasping  all  from  outer  strife 

Sits  Love  with  folden  wing, 
A-brood  o'er  dearer  life-in-life, 

Within  our  fairy-ring, 

Dear  love  ! 

Our  hallowed  fairy-ring. 

Thou  leanest  thy  true  heart  on  mine, 

And  bravely  bearest  up  ! 
Aye  mingling  Love's  most  precious  wine 

In  Life's  most  bitter  cup  ! 


99 


And  evermore  the  circling  hours 
New  gifts  of  glory  bring  ; 

We  live  and  love  like  happy  flowers, 
All  in  our  fairy-ring, 

Dear  love ! 
Our  hallowed  fairy-ring. 

We've  known  a  many  sorrows,  Sweet ! 

We've  wept  a  many  tears, 
And  often  trod  with  trembling  feet 

Our  pilgrimage  of  years. 
But  when  our  sky  grew  dark  and  wild, 

All  closclier  did  we  cling  : 
Clouds  broke  to  beauty  as  you  smiled, 

Peace  crown'd  our  fairy-ring, 
Dear  love  1 

Our  hallowed  fairy-ring. 

Away,  grim  Lords  of  Murderdom  ; 

Away,  0  Hate,  and  Strife  ! 
Hence,  revellers,  reeling  drunken  from 

Your  feast  of  human  life  ! 
Heaven  shield  our  little  Goshen  round, 

From  ills  that  with  them  spring, 
And  never  be  their  footprints  found 

Within  our  fairy-ring, 

Dear  love  ! 

Our  hallowed  fairy-ring. 


100 

But,  coine  ye  who  the  Truth  dare  own, 

Or  work  in  Love's  dear  name  ; 
Come  all  who  wear  the  Martyr's  crown — 

The  Mystic's  robe  of  flame  ! 
Sweet  souls,  a  Christless  world  doth  doom 

Like  birds  smote  blind  to  sing — 
For  such,  we'll  aye  make  welcome  room 

Within  our  fairy-ring, 

Dear  love ! 

Our  hallowed  fairy-ring. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  IN  EXILE. 

WARRIORS  of  Freedom  who  for  heritage 
Wear  on  their  brows  a  mark  as  curst  as  Cain's, 
The  flower  and  chivalry  of  many  lands 
Betrothed  to  Martyrdom  as  to  a  Bride, — 
Had  met  together,  a  strange  cornpanie  ! 
But  brothers,  battling  in  one  sacred  cause. 
They  were  heroic  souls  who  had  lain  life's  all 
On  Freedom's  hungry  Altar,  and  gone  forth 
Clad  in  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice, 
To  roam  a  thankless  world  with  homeless  hearts,- 
Men  who  had  tost  on  Danger's  wildest  waves, 
For  whom  a  radiant  Victory  ever  shone  : 


101 


Like  Hero  on  her  watch-tower  with  her  torch, 

Lighting  her  lover  through  the  shadow  of  death, — 

Men  who  had  broken  Battle's  burning  lines, 

Dealing  life  with  their  looks,  death  with  their  hands, 

And  strode  like  Salamanders  through  War's  flame  ; 

And  in  the  last  stern  charge  of  desperate  valour, 

On  Death's  scythe  dasht  with  force  that  turn'd  its  edge. 

Some  were  but  youths,  yet  with  such  manhood  flusht, 

By  eager  leaps  to  catch  at  lordlier  life, 

They  had  attained  the  old  heroic  stature. 

Some  had  grown  grey  with  battle,  some  with  years, 

And  there  were  ancient  Sorrows  grand  as  kings, 

Of  an  old  peerless  line.     Such  silent  Griefs 

And  Sufferings  crown'd  for  immortality. 

Earnest  as  fire  they  sate,  and  reverent 

As  though  a  God  were  present  in  their  midst ; 

Stern,  but  serene  and  hopeful,  prayerful,  brave, 

As  Cromwell's  Ironsides  on  an  eve  of  battle  ; 

Each  individual  life  as  clencht  and  knit, 

As  though  beneath  their  robes  their  fingers  clutcht 

The  weapon  sworn  to  strike  a  Tyrant  down. 

Such  proud  Belief  did  lift  their  kindling  brows, 

Such  glowing  purpose  hunger'd  in  their  eyes, 

With  fire  enough  to  set  a  world  in  flames. 

No  servile  souls,  that  at  your  fixed  look, 

Like  meek  worms,  writhe  into  their  darkening  holes. 

And  One  up-rose  to  word  the  Thought  than  run 

Hot  to  their  hearts  and  glittering  to  their  brows ; 


An  old  man,  with  the  mournfull'st,  thin,  grey  hair  ; 

The  lines  of  suffering  in  his  face  scem'd  drawn 

Tight  with  the  mortal  tug  of  Agony  ; 

But  with  sad  majesty  he  smiled,  and  splendour 

Broke  sweetly  from  the  furrows  of  his  face, 

As  wrinkles  on  the  waters  laugh  with  light. 

Dilating  as  a  Prophet's  wings  of  flame 

Flutter'd  within  him — all  his  aspect  burn'd 

"With  an  unearthly  fire.     He  was  caught  up 

The  mount  Transfiguration,  with  eyes  fixt 

On  air,  as  though  he  talkt  with  one  beyond. 

He  stood  there  looking  down  the  unseen  time, 

Like  some  hoar  Hill  that  lifts  its  solemn  peak 

To  catch  the  unrisen  Morn,  while  all  the  plains 

Are  drowsed  and  darkling.     He  already  sunn'd 

Him  in  the  glory  of  the  coining  Day; 

And  his  words  swept  their  yielding,  springing  hearts, 

As  strong  winds  take  a  field  of  billowing  corn. 

"  The  merry  Bells  are  jubilant  To-night 

Through  all  the  land  of  Exile  ;  blithe  wine  laughs 

Its  bubbling  laughter, — winking  gem-like  eyes, 

And  leaps  up  in  the  beaker  like  red  lips 

Whose  kisses  storm  the  inner  gates  of  bliss. 

But  not  with  mirth,  and  song,  and  dainty  feast, 

We  meet  to  hold  our  solemn  festival. 

We  wait  the  wine  of  Freedom  ;  when  it  runs 

We  shall  wax  merry,  too, — perchance  grow  drunken- 

They  keep  it  ripening  to  such  mellow  age  ! 


103 


And  we  shall  banquet  like  Immortals  fed 

By  Hebe's  hand  at  the  Ambrosial  feasts. 

The  Xew  Year  flashes  on  us  sadly  grand, 

Leaps  in  our  midst  with  ringing  armour  on, 

Strikes  a  mail'd  hand  in  ours,  and  bids  us  arm 

Ere  the  first  trumpet  sound  the  hour  of  onset. 

Dense  darkness  lies  on  Europe's  winter-world. 

Stealthy  and  grim  the  Bear  comes  creeping  on, 

Out  of  the  North,  and  all  the  Peoples  sleep 

By  Freedom's  smouldering  watch-fire  :  there  is  none 

To  snatch  the  brand,  and  dash  it  in  his  face. 

Old  England  sleeps,  and  still  the  Bear  creeps  on. 

Ah  !  she  forgetteth  how,  in  the  old  years, 

The  great  hearts  of  her  glorious  Commonwealth 

Sent  thunder-throbbings    through  the  lands,   and    gave 

them 

Such  a  new  pulse  of  nobler  life :  and  when 
Their  sumless  Venture  wreckt,  and  o'er  them  roll'd 
The  wormwood  waters  of  defeat  and  death, 
How  in  their  pleading  hands  they  held  the  Babe 
And  Orphan  Liberty,  and  bade  her  rear  it 
For  love  of  them,  and  for  its  own  sweet  sake. 
And  England  slinks  behind  the  nations  now. 
Dim  is  her  Beacon  Despots  paled  to  see 
Burn  on  them  through  the  dark,  like  God's  stern  eye. 
Her  battle-armour  rusteth  in  her  halls, 
And  the  old  mighty  arm  that  struck  such  blows 
For  Right  and  Freedom,  hangeth  listless  now. 


104 


A  dry-rot  eats  her  life  :  her  God  is  Mammon  ! 

God  Mars  no  longer  leaps  into  her  heart, 

As  in  a  chariot  driving  down  to  battle. 

Her  ancient  fame  and  valour  have  become 

A  tale  that's  told  us  of  forgotten  times — 

Some  fabled  Kraken  slumbering  in  its  sea  ! 

0  !  for  the  voice  of  Milton  once  again, 

To  make  the  lion-eyes  lighten,  and  her  heart 

As  tremblingly  alive  as  is  a  Star, 

Till  in  her  naked  strength  majestical 

She  walkt  the  sun-road  of  her  glorious  way. 

But  England  sleeps — the  Ruin  still  rolls  on. 

Earth  crouches  'neath  the  shuddering  wings  of  Fear. 

Silent,  and  very  calm,  Freedom  lies  husht, 

And  listens  like  a  panting  thing  pursued, 

Hearkening,  heart-stifled,  for  the  stealthiest  tread 

Of  One  that  hunts  like  Tarquin  for  Lucrece. 

;Tis  midnight  now,  and  all  the  creeping  things, 

And  Birds  of  Darkness,  ply  their  ghastly  work. 

Life  gropes  and  stumbles  among  gaping  graves, 

And  Freedom's  worshippers  fall  headless,  while 

They  bend  to  give  their  hearts  up  at  her  shrine  ! 

But  God's  in  heaven,  and  yet  the  Day  shall  dawn — 

Break  from  the  dark  upon  her  golden  wings, 

Her  quick,  ripe  splendours  rend  and  burn  the  gloom, 

Her  living  tides  of  glory  burst,  and  foam, 

And  hurry  along  the  darkeu'd  streets  of  night. 

Cloud  after  cloud  shall  light  a  rainbow-roof, 


105 


And  build  a  Triumph-Arch  for  conquering  Day 
To  flash  her  beauty — trail  her  grandeurs  through, 
And  take  the  World  in  her  white  arms  of  light. 
And  earth  shall  fling  aside  her  mask  of  gloom, 
And  lift  her  tearful  face.     0  there  will  be 
Blood  on  it  thick  as  dews  I     The  Children's  blood 
Splasht  in  the  Mother's  face  !     And  there  must  be 
A  red  sunrise  of  retribution  yet ! 
A  mighty  future  is  about  to  break 
The  hush  o'  the  world — the  waiting  gloom  in  heaven. 
The  Xew  Year  cometh  with  a  magic  key, 
To  ope  some  radiant  chamber  in  Time's  palace. 
Our  Martyrs  have  not  sworn  such  seed  in  vain  ! 
Beneath  old  Winter's  snows  a  world  of  hope 
Lies  ripening,  aad  shall  richly  run  to  flowers, 
When  Spring  comes  dancing  like  a  jubilant  Psaltress, 
And  free  earth  kindles  as  a  countenance 
Alive  with  love,  and  all  the  soul  alight ! 
0  come,  thou  Spring  of  God,  and  at  thy  voice 
The  balmy  blood  shall  beat  in  bud  and  leaf ! 
And  come,  thou  mellow  rain,  fall  on  it  warm, 
And  fondle  it  with  kisses,  drop  rich  tears  ; 
And  blow,  thou  sweet  Spring-wind,  and  set  it  stirring 
With  secret  rapture — budding  tenderly, 
With  all  the  glory  of  its  folded  bloom, 
And  all  its  fragrance  striving  for  the  light. 
God,  what  a  Spring  and  Harvest  yet  shall  crown 
The  dark,  dern  Deluge  of  Calamity  ! 

5* 


106 


Then  come,  thou  grand  New  Year,  in  silence  come 

Across  the  white  snows,  and  the  winter-land. 

Come,  great  Deliverer,  call  the  peoples  up, — 

Up  from  the  Egypt  of  their  slavery  ! 

Ring  out  the  death-knell  of  old  Tyranny — 

7Tis  rotten  ripe,  and  the  heart  of  half  the  world 

Doth  beat  and  burst  to  hurry  it  into  hell. 

Stride  o'er  the  Present,  grand  as  some  huge  wave 

Should  rush  across  Panama  at  a  leap, 

And  make  two  Seas  one  perfect  world  of  waters. 

So  link  our  great  Past  to  a  nobler  Future, 

And  set  our  new  world  singing  on  its  way, 

With  sunshine  freighted,  like  a  heart  of  bliss, 

Her  Life's  rich  tide  at  Glory's  high  flood-mark. 

A  little  while,  and  we  shall  yet  return 

Each  to  the  Fatherland,  like  kings  to  conquest. 

Light  breaks  there  !  in  the  East :  it  grows,  and  soon 

Shall  Freedom's  sun  roll  up  the  Heaven  of  Life. 

We  may  not  see  God's  face,  yet  at  our  side 

He  combats  for  us,  with  his  vizor  down. 

But  no  words — like  weeds  they  sap  the  soul 

Of  richness  that  should  fill  the  fruit  of  deeds. 

Henceforth  let  lips  be  dumb,  as  Bravery — 

Her  parley  done — had  shut  her  gates,  to  ope  not 

Save  for  the  shouts  that  chariot  Victory  forth. 

We  are  all  ready  !     We  have  waited  long  ! 

God  strike  the  hour,  Ho  !  let  the  trumpets  ring !" 

He  ceased.     One  shout  ran  thro'  the  night,  and  struck 


107 


Heaven's  boss  of  stars,  and  like  a  ship  went  down 

In  the  lone  sea  of  silence  flowing  round. 

In  touching  majesty  the  Stars  lookt  down, 

As  tho'  they  yearn'd  to  them  with  answering  pulse, 

And  with  invisible  speed  the  world  roll'd  on. 


SONG. 

LIKE  leaves  from  Autumn's  bough,  Old  Friend, 

Our  ripest  hopes  depart ; 
And  there's  little  left  us  now,  Old  Friend, 

To  cheer  the  Patriot's  heart. 
The  Altars  where  we  knelt,  Old  Friend, 

Grow  desolate  and  cold, 
And  faint  is  the  faith  we  felt,  Old  Friend, 

I'  the  valiant  days  of  old. 

In  bloody  shrouds  they  sleep,  Old  Friend, 

Who  could  not  live  as  slaves  : 
And  the  living  only  weep,  Old  Friend, 

Above  their  Martyrs'  graves  ! 
Freedom  hath  many  a  wound,  Old  Friend, 

And,  ring'd  by  hounds  of  hell, 
She  wraps  her  purple  round,  Old  Friend, 

To  fall  as  Osar  foil. 


108 

The  men  of  blood  prevail,  Old  Friend, 

And,  stricken  in  the  night, 
The  people's  weeping  wail,  Old  Friend, 

Goes  praying  for  the  light. 
And  yet  their  day  shall  come,  Old  Friend, 

Though  we  may  never  hear 
The  shouts  of  Harvest-home,  Old  Friend, 

Nor  see  the  golden  year. 


O  THE  white  Snow  crowns  the  Hills,  and  the  arms  of  Ethci 

fills, 

In  the  glory  of  its  loveliness — a  presence  as  of  light, 
And  it  looks  up  in  Heaven's  face  with  all  a  Virgin's  trust- 
ing grace  : 

So  the  Maiden  walkt  on  Purity's  white  height. 
But  the  Snow  will  blush  for  bliss,  at  the  red  Dawn's  fer- 
vent kiss  ; 
And  fall  from  its  high  throne,  and  lose  the  brightness 

from  its  brow  ; 
And  be  trodden  on  the  highways,  and  be  trampled  in  the 

byways : 
So  the  Maiden's  life  is  stain'd  and  trampled  now. 


109 


EIGHTEEN    HUNDRED  AND    FORTY-EIGHT. 

PEOPLE  of  England,  rouse  ye  from  your  dreaming  ! 

Sinew  your  souls  for  Freedom's  glorious  leap  : 
Look  to  the  Future,  where  our  day-spring's  gleaming  : 

Lo  !  a  pulse  stirs  that  never  more  shall  sleep 
In  the  world's  heart.     Men's  eyes  flash  wide  with  wonder! 

The  Robbers  tremble  in  their  mightiest  tower, 
Strange  words  roll  o'er  their  souls  with  wheels  of  thunder, 

The  leaves  from  Royalty's  tree  fall  hour  by  hour, — 

Earthquakes  leap  in  our  Temples,  crumbling  Throne  and 
Power. 


Vampyres  have  drain'd  the  human  heart's  best  blood, 
Kings  robb'd,  and  Priests  have  curst  us  in  God's  name: 

Out  in  the  midnight  of  the  Past  we've  stood — 
While  fiends  of  darkness  plied  their  hellish  game. 

We  have  been  worshipping  a  gilded  crown, 

Which  drew  heaven's  lightning-laughter  on  our  head  ; 

Chains  fell  on  us  as  we  were  bowing  down  ; 

We  deem'd  our  Gods  divine,  but  lo  !  instead—- 
They are  but  painted  clay, — with  morn  the  charm  has 
fled! 


110 


And  this  is  merry  England, — cradling-place 

Of  souls  self-deified  and  glory-crown'd  ! 
Where  smiles  made  splendour  in  the  Peasant's  face, 

And  Justice  reign'd — her  awful  eyes  close-bound ! 
Where  Toil  with  open  brow  went  on  light-hearted, 

And  twain  in  love  Law  never  thrust  apart  ? 
How  is  the  glory  of  our  life  departed 

From  us,  who  sit  and  nurse  our  bleeding  smart : 

And  slink,  afraid  to  break  the  laws  that  break  the 
heart ! 


Husht  be  the  Herald  on  the  walls  of  fame, 

Trumping  this  People  as  their  Country's  pride  ; 

Weep  rather,  with  your  souls  on  fire  with  shame  : 
See  ye  not  how  the  palaced  knaves  deride 

Us  flatter'd  fools  ?  how  priestcraft,  strong  and  stealthy, 
Stabs  at  our  freedom  through  its  veil  of  night, 

And  grinds  the  poor  to  flush  its  coffers  wealthy  ? 
Hear  how  the  land  groans  in  the  grip  of  Might, 
Then  quaff  your  cup  of  Wrongs,  and  laud  a  Briton's 
"  Right." 


There's  not  a  spot  in  all  this  flowery  land, 

Where  Tyranny's  cursed  brand-mark  has  not  been  : 

O !  were  it  not  for  its  all-blasting  hand, 

Dear  Christ,  what  a  sweet  heaven  this  might  have  been  ! 


Ill 


Has  it  not  hunted  forth  our  spirits  brave, — 

Kill'd  the  red  rose  of  health  which  crown'd  our  daugh- 
ters, 
Wedded  our  living  hopes  unto  the  grave, — 

Filled  happy  homes  with  strife,  the  world  with  slaugh- 
ters, 

And  turn'd  our  thoughts  to  blood — to  gall,  the  heart's 
sweet  waters  ? 

Where  is  the  spirit  of  our  ancient  Sires  ? 

Who,    bleeding,    wrung  their  Rights   from    tyrannies 

olden. 
God-spirits  have  been  here,  for  Freedom  fires 

From  out  their  ashes,  to  earth's  heart  enfolden  ; 
The  mighty  dead  lie  slumbering  around, — 

Whose  names  thrill  thro'  us  as  Gods  were  in  the  air  : 
Life  leaps  from  where  their  dust  makes  holy  ground  ; 

Their  deeds  spring  forth  in  glory, — live  ail-where, — 

But  we  are  traitors  to  the  trust  they  bade  us  bear. 

Go  forth,  when  Night  is  husht,  and  heaven  is  clothed 
With  smiling  stars  that  in  God's  presence  roll, 

Feel  the  stirr'd  spirit  leap  to  them  betrothed, 
As  Angel-wings  were  fanning  in  the  soul  ; 

Feel  the  hot  tears  flood  in  the  eyes  upturning, 
The  tide  of  goodness  heave  its  brightest  waves, — 

Then  suddenly  crush  the  grand  and  God-ward  yearning 


With  the  mad  thought  that  ye  are  bounden  slaves  ! 
0 !  how  long  will  ye  make  your  hearts  its  living  graves  ! 

Immortal  Liberty  !  we  see  thee  stand 

Like  Morn  just  stept  from  heaven  upon  a  mountain 
With  beautiful  feet,  and  blessing-laden  hand, 

And  heart  that  welleth  Love's  most  living  fountain  ! 
0 !  when  wilt  thou  string  on  the  People's  lyre 

Joy's  broken  chord  !     And  on  the  People's  brow 
Set  Empire's  crown  ?  Light  up  thy  beacon-fire 

Within  their  hearts,  with  an  undying  glow  ; 

Nor  give  us  blood  for  milk,  as  men  are  drunk  with  now  ? 

Curst,  curst  be  war,  the  World's  most  fatal  glory  ! 

Ye  wakening  nations,  burst  its  guilty  thrall  ! 
Time  waits  with  out-strctcht  hand  to  shroud  the  gory 

Grim  glaive  of  strife  behind  Oblivion's  pall. 
The  Tyrant  laughs  at  swords,  the  cannon's  rattle 

Thunders  no  terror  on  his  murderous  soul. 
Thought,  Miud,  must  conquer  Might,  and  in  this  battle 

The  Warrior's  cuirass,  or  the  Sophist's  stole, 

Shall  blunt  no  lance  of  light,  no  onset  backward  roll. 

Old  Poets  tell  us  of  a  golden  age, 

When  earth  was  guiltless, — Gods  the  guests  of  men, 
Ere  sin  had  dimm'd  the  heart's  illumined  page, — 

And  Sinai-voices  sav  'twill  come  again. 


113 


0 !  happy  age  !  when  Love  shall  rule  the  heart, 
And  time  to  live  shall  be  the  poor  man's  dower, 

When  Martyrs  bleed  no  more,  nor  Exiles  smart — • 
Mind  is  the  only  diadem  of  power — 
People,  it  ripens  now  1  awake  1  and  strike  the  hour. 


Hearts,  high  and  mighty,  gather  in  our  cause. 

Bless,  bless,  0  God,  and  crown  their  earnest  labour, 
"Who  dauntless  fight  to  win  us  equal  laws, 

With  mental  armour,  and  with  spirit-sabre ! 
Bless,  bless,  0  God  !  the  proud  intelligence, 

That  like  a  sun  dawns  on  the  People's  forehead, — 
Humanity  springs  from  them  like  incense, 

The  Future  burst  upon  them,  boundless — starried, — 

They  weep  repentant  tears,  that   they  so  long  have 
tarried. 


THE    PATRIOT. 

AY,  Tyrants,  build  your  Babels  !  forge  your  fetters  !  link 

your  chains  ! 
As  brims  your  guilt-cup  fuller,  ours  of  grief  ebbs  to  the 

drains  : 


114 


Still,  as  on  Christ's  brow,  crowns  of  thorn  for  Freedom's 

Martyrs  twine  ; 

Still  batten  on  live  hearts,  and  madden,  o'er  the  hot  blood- 
wine. 
Murder  men    sleeping,  or  awake, — torture  them   dumb 

with  pain, 
And  tear,  with  hands  all  bloody  red,  Mind's  jewels  from 

the  brain ! 
Your  feet  are  on  us,  Tyrants — strike  !  and  hush  Earth's 

wail  of  sorrow  : 
Your  sword  of  power,  so  red  to-day,  shall  kiss  the  dust 

to-morrow. 

0  !  but  'twill  be  a  merry  day,  the  world  shall  set  apart, 
When  Strife's  last  brand  is  broken  in  the  last  crown'd 

Tyrant's  heart ! 
And  it  shall  come, — despite  of  Rifle,  Rope,  and  Rack, 

and  Scaffold, 
Once  more  we  ilft  the  earnest  brow,  and  battle  on  un- 

baffled. 

Our  hopes  ran  mountains  high,  we  sang  at  heart,  wept 
tears  of  gladness, 

When  France,  the  bravely  beautiful,  dasht  down  her  scep- 
tred madness  ; 

And  Hungary  her  one-hearted  race  of  mighty  heroes 
hurl'd 

In  the  death-grip  of  the  nations,  as  a  bulwark  for  the 
world. 


115 


O  Hungary  !  gallant  Hungary  !  grand  and  glorious  thou 

wert, 
The  World's  soul  feeling,  like  a  river,  gushing  from  God's 

heart  : 
And  Rome, — who,  while  her  Heroes  bled,  felt  her  old 

breast  heave  higher, 
How  her  eyes  redden'd  with  the  flash  of  all  their  Roman 

fire  ! 
Mothers  of  children,  who  shall  live  the  Gods  of  future 

story  ! 
Your  blood  shall  blossom  from  the  dust,  and  crown  the 

world  with  glory. 
Ye'll   tread   them  down  yet !  curse   and   crown,    Czar, 

Kaiser,  King  and  slave, 
And  Freedom  shall  be  sovran  in  the  courts  of  fool  and 

knave 


Wail  for  the  hopes  that  have  gone  down  !  the  young  life 
vainly  spilt  ! 

Th'  Eternal  Murder  still  sits  crown'd,  and  throned  in 
damning  guilt. 

Still  in  God's  golden  sun  the  Tyrants'  bloody  banners 
burn, 

And  Priests, — Hell's  midnight  Thugs  ! — to  their  soul- 
strangling  work  return  ! 


116 


See  how  the  oppressors  of  the  poor  with  serpents  hunt  our 

blood  ; 
Hear,  from  the  dark,  the  groan  and  curse  go  maddening 

up  to  God. 
They  kill  and  trample  us  poor  worms,  till  earth  is  dead 

men's  dust ; 
Death's  red  tooth  daily  drains  our  hearts,  but  end,  ay, 

end  it  must. 
The  herald  of  our  coming  Christ  leaps  in  the  womb  of 

Time  ; 
The  poor's  grand  army  treads  the  Age's  march  with  step 

sublime. 

Ours  is  the  mighty  future!  and  what  marvel,  brother  men, 
If  the  devoured  of  ages  should  turn  devourers  then  ? 


0 !  brothers  of  the  bounding  heart,  I  look  thro'  tears  and 

smile, 
Our  land  is  rife  with  sounds  of  fetters  snapping  'neath  the 

file; 
I  lay  my  hand  on  England's  heart,  and  in  each  life-throb 

mark, 
The  pealing  thought  of  freedom  ring  its  Tocsin  in  the 

dark. 

I  see  the  Toiler  hath  become  a  glorious  Christ-like  preacher, 
And,  as  he  wins  a  crust,  stands  proudly  forth,  the  great 

world-teacher  : 


117 


He  still  toils  on,  but,  Tyrants,  'tis  a  mighty  thing  when 

slaves, 
Who  delve  their  lives  into  their  work,  know  that  they 

delve  your  graves. 
Anarchs !    your  doom  comes  swiftly  !    brave  and  eagle 

spirits  climb, 
To  ring  Oppression's  death-knell  from  the  old  watch-towers 

of  time  ; 

A  spirit  of  Cromwellian  might  is  stirring  at  this  hour, 
And  thought  is  burning  in  men's  eyes  with  more  than 

speechful  power. 


Old  England,  cease  the  mummer's  part !  wake,  Starveling, 

Serf,  and  Slave  ! 

Rouse  in  the  majesty  of  wrong,  great  kindred  of  the  brave! 
Speak,    and   the   world   shall   answer,    with   her   voices 

myriad  fold, 
And  men,  like  Gods,  shall  grapple  with  the  giant-wrongs 

of  old. 

Now,  Mothers  of  the  people,  give  your  babes  heroic  milk; 
Sires,  soul  your  sons  to  daring  deeds,  no  more  soft  words 

of  silk  ; 
Great  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead  take  shape,  anu  walk  our 

mind, 
Their  glory  smites  our  upward  look,  we  seem  no  longer 

blind  ; 


us 


They  tell  us  how  they  broke  their  bonds,  aiid  whisper,  "  So 

may  ye," 
One  sharp,  stern  struggle,  and  the  slaves  of  centuries  are 

free  ! 
The  people's  heart,  with  pulse  like  cannon,  panteth  for  the 

fray, 
And,  brothers,  gallant  brothers,  we'll  be  with  you  in  that 

day. 


A  LOVER'S  FANCY. 

SWEET  Heaven  !  I  do  love  a  maiden, 
Radiant,  rare,  and  beauty-laden  : 
When  she's  near  me,  heaven  is  round  me, 
Her  dear  presence  doth  so  bound  me  ! 
I  could  wring  my  heart  of  gladness, 
Might  it  free  her  lot  of  sadness  1 
Give  the  world,  and  all  that's  in  it, 
Just  to  press  her  hand  a  minute  ! 
Yet  she  weeteth  not  I  love  her  ; 

Never  dare  I  tell  the  sweet 
Tale,  but  to  the  stars  above  her, 

And  the  flowers  that  kiss  her  feet. 

0  !  to  live  and  linger  near  her, 
And  in  tearful  moments  cheer  her  ! 


119 

I  could  be  a  Bird  to  lighten 

Her  dear  heart, — her  sweet  eyes  brighten 

Or  in  fragrance,  like  a  blossom, 

Give  my  life  up  on  her  bosom  1 

For  my  love's  withouten  measure, 

All  its  pangs  are  sweetest  pleasure  ; 

Yet  she  weeteth  not  I  love  her  ; 

Never  dare  I  tell  the  sweet 
Tale,  but  to  the  stars  above  her, 

And  the  flowers  that  kiss  her  feet. 


SONG. 

ALL  glorious  as  a  Rainbow's  birth, 

She  came  in  Spring-tide's  golden  hours  ; 
When  Heaven  went  hand-iii-hand  with  Earth, 

And  May  was  crown'd  with  buds  and  flowers  ! 
The  mounting  devil  at  my  heart 

Clomb  faintlier  as  my  life  did  win 
The  charmed  heaven,  she  wrought  apart, 

To  wake  its  slumbering  Angel  in  ! 
With  radiant  mien  she  trode  serene, 

And  past  me  smiling  by  ! 
O  !  who  that  lookt  could  chance  but  love  ? 

Not  I,  sweet  soul,  not  I. 


120 

Her  budding  breasts,  like  fragrant  fruit, 

Peer'd  out,  a-y earning  to  be  prest : 
Her  voice  shook  all  my  heart's  red  root ! 

Yet  might  not  break  a  babe's  soft  rest  ! 
Her  being  mingled  into  mine, 

As  breath  of  flowers  doth  mix  and  melt, 
And  on  her  lips  the  honey-wine 

Was  royal-rich  as  spikenard  spilt ; 
With  love  a-gush,  like  water-brooks, 

Her  heart  smiled  in  her  eye  ; 
O  !  who  that  lookt  could  chance  but  love  ? 

Not  I,  sweet  soul,  not  I. 

The  dewy  eyelids  of  the  Dawn 

Ne'er  oped  such  heaven  as  hers  can  show 
0  Love  !  such  eyes  have  surely  shone 

As  jewels  in  some  starry  brow  ! 
Her  brow  flasht  glory  like  a  shrine, 

Or  lily-bell  with  sunburst  bright  ; 
Where  came  and  went  love-thoughts  divine, 

As  low  winds  walk  the  leaves  in  light : 
She  wore  her  beauty  with  the  grace 

Of  Summer's  star-clad  sky  ; 
O  1  who  that  lookt  could  chance  but  love  ? 

Not  I,  sweet  soul,  not  I. 


121 


IT  WILL  END  IN  THE  RIGHT. 

NEVER  despair  !  O,  my  Brother  in  sorrow  ! 

I  know  that  our  mourning  is  ended  not.     Yet, 
Shall  the  vanquisht  to-day  be  the  victors  to-morrow, 

Our  Star  shall  shine  on  when  the  Tyrant's  sun's  set. 
Hold  on!  tho'  they  spurn  thee,  for  whom  thou  art  living 

A  life  only  cheer'd  by  the  lamp  of  its  love  : 
Hold  on  !  Freedom's  hope  to  the  bounden  ones  giving  : 

Green  spots  in  the  waste  wait  the  worn  spirit-dove  ; 
Hold  on, — still  hold  on, — in  the  world's  despite, 
Nurse  the  faith  in  thy  heart,  keep  the  lamp  of  God  bright, 
And,  my  life  for  thine  !  it  shall  end  in  the  Right. 

"What,  tho'  the  Martyrs  and  Prophets  have  perisht  ? 

The  Angel  of  Life  rolls  the  stoue  from  their  graves  : 
Immortal's  the  love,  and  the  freedom  they  cherisht, 

Their  Faith's  Triumph-cry  stirs  the  spirits  of  slaves  ! 
They  are  gone, — but  a  Glory  is  left  in  our  life, 

Like  the  day-god's  last  kiss  on  the  darkness  of  Even — 
Gone  down  on  the  desolate  seas  of  their  strife, 

To  climb  as  star-beacons  up  Liberty's  heaven. 
Hold  on,— still  hold  on, — in  the  world's  despite, 
Nurse  the  faith  in  thy  heart,  keep  the  lamp  of  God  bright, 
And,  my  life  for  thine  !  it  shall  end  in  the  Right. 


122 


Think  of  the  Wrongs  that  have  ground  us  for  ages, 

Think  of  the  Wrongs  we  have  still  to  endure  ! 
Think  of  our  blood  red  on  History's  pages  ; 

Then  work,  that  our  reck'ning  be  speedy  and  sure. 
Slaves,  cry  unto  God!  but  be  our  God  reveal'd 

In  our  lives,  in  our  works,  in  our  warfare  for  man  ; 
And  bearing — or  borne  upon — Victory's  shield, 

Let  us  fight  battle-harness'd,  and  fall  in  the  van. 
Hold  on, — still  hold  on, — in  the  world's  despite, 
Nurse  the  faith  in  thy  heart,  keep  the  lamp  of  God  bright, 
And,  my  life  for  thine!  it  shall  end  in  the  Right. 


GOD'S  WORLD  IS  WORTHY   BETTER  MEN. 

BEHOLD  !  an  idle  tale  they  tell, 

And  who  shall  blame  their  telling  it  ? 
The  rogues  have  got  their  cant  to  sell, 

The  world  pays  well  for  selling  it  ! 
They  say  the  world's  a  desert  drear, — 

Still  plagued  with  Egypt's  blindness  ! 
That  we  were  sent  to  suffer  here, — 

What  !  by  a  God  of  kindness  ? 
That  since  the  world  has  gone  astray, 

It  must  be  so  for  ever, 


123 

And  we  should  stand  still,  and  obey 

Its  Desolators.     Never  ! 
We'll  labour  for  the  better  time, 

With  all  our  might  of  Press  and  Pen  ; 
Believe  me,  'tis  a  truth  sublime, 

God's  world  is  worthy  better  men. 

With  Paradise  the  world  began, 

A  world  of  love  and  gladness : 
Its  beauty  may  be  marr'd  by  man 

With  all  his  crime  and  madness, 
Yet  'tis  a  brave  world  still.     Love  brings 

A  sunshine  for  the  dreary  ; 
With  all  our  strife,  sweet  Rest  hath  wings 

To  fold  o'er  hearts  a-weary. 
The  Sun  in  glory,  like  a  God, 

To-day  climbs  up  heaven's  bosom, 
The  flowers  upon  the  jewell'd  sod 

In  sweet  love-lessons  blossom, 
As  radiant  of  immortal  youth 

And  beauty,  as  in  Eden  ;  then 
Believe  me,  'tis  a  noble  truth, 

God's  world  is  worthy  better  men. 

O  !  they  are  bold,  knaves  over-bold, 
Who  say  we  are  doom'd  to  anguish  : 

That  men  in  God's  own  image  soul'd, 
Like  hell-bound  slaves,  must  languish. 


124 


Probe  Nature's  heart  to  its  red  core, 

There's  more  of  good  than  evil ; 
And  man,  down-trampled  man,  is  more 

Of  Angel  than  of  Devil. 
Prepare  to  die  ?     Prepare  to  live  ! 

We  know  not  what  is  living : 
And  let  us  for  the  world's  good  give, 

As  God  is  ever  giving. 
Give  Action,  Thought,  Love,  Wealth,  and  Time, 

To  win  the  primal  age  again  ; 
Believe  me,  'tis  a  truth  sublime, 

God's  world  is  worthy  better  men. 


OLD  ENGLAND. 

THERE  she  sits  in  her  Island-home, 

Peerless  among  her  Peers  1 
And  Humanity  oft  to  her  arms  doth  come, 

To  ease  its  poor  heart  of  tears. 
Old  England  still  throbs  with  the  muffled  fire 

Of  a  Past  she  can  never  forget : 
And  again  shall  she  banner  the  world  up  higher 

For  there's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet, 


125 


They  would  mock  at  her  now,  who  of  old  lookt  forth 

In  their  fear,  as  they  heard  her  afar  ; 
But  loud  will  your  wail  be,  O  Kings  of  the  Earth  ! 

When  the  Old  Land  goes  down  to  the  war. 
The  Avalanche  trembles  half-launcht,  and  half-riven, 

Her  voice  will  in  motion  set : 
O  ring  out  the  tidings,  ye  Winds  of  heaven  ! 

There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet. 

The  old  nursing  Mother's  not  hoary  yet, 

There  is  sap  in  her  Saxon  tree  ; — 
Lo  !  she  lifteth  a  bosom  of  glory  yet, 

Thro'  her  mists  to  the  Sun  and  the  Sea. 
Fair  as  the  Queen  of  Love,  fresh  from  the  foam, 

Or  a  Star  in  a  dark  cloud  set ; 
Ye  may  blazon  her  shame, — ye  may  leap  at  her  name, — 

But  there'  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet. 

Let  the  storm  burst,  it  will  find  the  Old  Land 

Ready-ripe  for  a  rough,  red  fray  1 
She  will  fight  as  she  fought  when  she  took  her  stand, 

For  the  Right  in  the  olden  day. 
Ay,  rouse  the  old  royal  soul,  Europe's  best  hope 

Is  her  sword-edge  by  Victory  set ! 
She  shall  dash  Freedom's  foes   adown  Death's  bloody 

slope ; 
For  there's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet. 


126 


A  POOR    MAX'S  WIFE. 

HER  dainty  hand  nestled  in  mine,  rich  and  whiU, 

And  timid  as  trembling  dove  : 
And  it  twinkled  about  me,  a  jewel  of  light, 

As  she  garnisht  our  feast  of  love  ; 
'T  was  the  queenliest  hand  in  all  lady-land, 

And  she  was  a  poor  Man's  wife  ! 
O  !  but  little  ye'd  think  how  that  wee,  white  hand 

Could  dare  in  the  battle  of  Life. 


Her  heart  it  was  lowly  as  maiden's  might  be, 

But  hath  climb'd  to  heroic  height, 
And  burn'd  like  a  shield  in  defence  of  me, 

On  the  sorest  field  of  fight ! 
And  startling  as  fire,  it  hath  often  flasht  up 

In  her  eyes,  the  good  heart  and  rare  ! 
As  she  drank  down  her  half  of  our  bitterest  cup, 

And  taught  me  how  to  bear. 


Her  sweet  eyes  that  seem'd,  with  their  smile  sublime, 
Made  to  look  me  and  light  me  to  heaven, 

They  have  triumph'd  thro'  bitter  tears  many  a  time, 
Since  their  love  to  my  life  was  given  : 


127 


And  the  maiden-meek  voice  of  the  womanly  Wife 

Still  bringeth  the  heavens  nigher  ; 
For  it  rings  like  the  voice  of  God  over  my  Iif3, 

Aye  bidding  me  climb  up  higher. 

I  hardly  dared  think  it  was  human,  when 

1  first  lookt  in  her  yearning  face  ; 
For  it  shone  as  the  heavens  had  open'd  then, 

A  ud  clad  it  with  glory  and  grace  I 
But  dearer  its  light  of  healing  grew 

In  our  dark  and  desolate  day, 
As  the  Rainbow,  when  heav'n  hath  no  break  of  blue, 

Smileth  the  storm  away. 

0!  her  shape  was  the  lithest  Loveliness, — 

Just  an  armful  of  heav'n  to  unfold  ! 
But  the  form  that  bends  flower-like  in  love's  caress, 

With  the  Victor's  strength  is  soul'd  ! 
In  her  worshipful  presence  transfigur'd  I  stand, 

And  the  poor  Man's  English  home 
She  lights  with  the  Beauty  of  Greece  the  graiid, 

And  the  glory  of  regallest  Rome. 


128 


LINES  INSCRIBED  TO  THE  REV.   F.  D, 
MAURICE. 

GOD  bless  you,  Brave  One,  in  our  dearth, 
Your  life  shall  leave  a  trailing  glory  ; 

And  round  the  poor  Man's  homely  hearth 
We  proudly  tell  your  suffering's  story. 

All  Saviour-souls  have  sacrificed, 

With  nought  but  noble  faith  for  guerdon  ; 

And  ere  the  world  hath  crown'd  the  Christ, 
The  man  to  death  hath  borne  the  burden  1 

The  Savage  broke  the  glass  that  brought 
The  heavens  nearer,  saith  the  legend  ! 

Even  so  the  Bigots  welcome  aught 
That  makes  our  vision  starrier  region'd  I 

They  lay  their  Corner-stones  in  dark 

Deep  waters,  who  up-build  in  beauty, 
On  Earth's  old  heart,  their  Triumph-Arc 
That  crowns  with  glory  lives  of  duty. 


129 

And  meekly  still  the  Martyrs  go 
To  keep  with  Pain  their  solemn  bridal  1 

And  still  they  walk  the  fire  who  bow 
Not  down  to  worship  Custom's  Idol. 

In  fieriest  forge  of  martyrdom, 

Their  swords  of  soul  must  weld  and  brighten 
Tear-bathed,  from  fiercest  furnace,  come 

Their  lives,  heroic-tempered — Titan  I 

And  heart-strings  sweetest  music  make 
When  swept  by  Suffering's  fiery  fingers  1 

And  thro'  soul-shadows  starriest  break 
The  glories  on  God's  brave  light-b ringers. 

Take  heart  1  tho'  sown  in  tears  and  blood, 
No  seed  that's  quick  with  love,  hath  perisht, 

Tho'  dropt  in  barren  byeways — God 

Some  glorious  flower  of  life  hath  cherisht. 

Take  heart ;  the  rude  dust  dark  To-day, 
Soars  a  new-lighted  sphere  To-morrow  I 

And  wings  of  splendour  burst  the  clay 
That  clasps  us  in  Death's  fruitful  furrow. 


130 


LOVE. 

0  LOVE  !  Love  !  Love  ! 
Its  glory  smites  our  gloom, 

And  flower-like  flusht  with  life,  the  heart 

Doth  burgeon  into  bloom  ! 
Sweet  as  the  sunshine's  golden-kiss, 

That  crowns  the  world  anew  : 
Sweet  as  in  Roses'  hearts  of  bliss, 

Soft,  summer-dark,  drops  dew. 

O  Love  !  Love  !  Love  ! 

May  make  the  brave  heart  ache  ; 
Pulse  out  its  lavish  life,  and  leave 

It,  mournfully  to  break  ! 
But  0  how  exquisite  it  starts 

The  thoughts  that  bee-like  cling, 
To  drain  the  honey  from  young  hearts, 

And  brave  a  bleeding  sting  ! 

O  Love  1  Love !  Love  ! 
Its  very  pain  endears  ! 
And  every  wail  and  weeping  brings 
Some  blessing  on  our  tears  ! 


131 

Love  makes  our  darkest  days,  sweet  dove  1 

In  golden  Suns  go  down, 
And  still  we'll  clothe  our  hearts  with  love, 

And  crown  us  with  Love's  crown. 


A  SONG  IN  THE  CITY. 

COINING  the  heart,  brain,  and  sinew,  to  gold, 
Till  we  sink  in  the  dark,  on  the  pauper's  dole, 

Feeling  for  ever  the  flowerless  mould, 
Growing  about  the  uncrowned  soul ! 

O,  God  !  0,  God  !  must  this  evermore  bo 

The  lot  of  the  Children  of  Poverty  ? 

The  spring  is  calling  from  brae  and  bower, 
In  the  twinkling  sheen  of  the  sunny  hour, 
Earth  smiles  in  her  golden  green  ; 

Glad  as  the  bird  in  tree-top  chanting 
Its  anthem  of  Liberty  ! 

With  its  heart  in  its  musical  gratitude  panting, 
And  0,  'tis  a  bliss  to  be  ! 

Once  more  to  drink  in  the  life-breathing  air, 
Lapt  in 'luxurious  flowers — 

To  recall  again  the  pleasures  that  were 
In  Infancy's  innocent  hours — 


132 


To  wash  the  earth-stains  and  the  dust  from  my  soul, 

In  nature's  reviving  tears,  once  more  ; 
To  feast  at  her  banquet,  and  drink  from  her  bowl 

Rich  dew,  for  the  heart's  hot  core. 
Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  it  is  heavenly  then, 

And  hints  of  the  spirit-world,  near  alway, 
Are  stirring,  and  stirred,  at  my  heart  again, 

Like  leaves  to  the  kiss  of  May  : 
It  is  but  a  dream,  yet'  tis  passing  sweet, 

And  when  from  its  spells  my  spirit  is  waking, 
Dark  as  my  heart,  and  the  wild  tears  start ; 

FOR   I    WAS    NOT    MADE    MERELY    FOR   MONEY-MAKING. 


My  soul  leaneth  out,  to  the  whisperings 

Of  the  mighty,  the  marvellous  spirits  of  old  ; 
And  heaven-ward  soareth  to  strengthen  her  wings, 

When  Labour  relapseth  its  earthly  hold  ; 
And  breathless  with  awfullest  beauty — it  listens, 

To  catch  the  Night's  deep,  starry  mystery; 
Or  in  mine  eyes,  dissolved,  glistens, 

Big,  for  the  moan  of  Humanity. 
Much  that  is  written  within  its  chamber, 
Much  that  is  shrined  in  the  mind's  living  amber, 
Much  of  this  thought  of  mine, 

There's  music  below,  in  the  glistering  leaves, 

There's  music  above,  and  heaven's  blue  bosom  heaves 
The  silvery  clouds  between  ; 


133 


The  boughs  of  the  woodland  are  nodding  in  play, 

And  wooingly  beckon  my  spirit  away — 
I  hear  the  dreamy  hum 

Of  bees  in  the  lime-tree,  and  birds  on  the  spray; 

And  they,  too,  are  calling  my  thinking  away  ; 

But  I  cannot — cannot  come. 
Vision  of  verdant  and  heart-cooling  places 

Will  steal  on  my  soul  like  a  golden  spring-rain. 
Bringing  the  lost  light  of  brave,  vanisht  faces  ; 

Till  all  my  life  blossoms  with  beauty  again. 
But  0,  for  a  glimpse  of  the  flower-laden  Morning, 

That  makes  the  heart  leap  up,  and  knock  at  heaven's 

door  ! 
O  for  the  green  lane,  the  green  field,  the  green  wood, 

To  take  in,  by  heartfuls,  their  greenness  once  more  ! 
How  I  yearn  to  lie  down  in  the  lush-flower'd  meadows, 
And  nestle  in  leaves,  and  the  sleep  of  the  shadows, 

Where  violets  in  the  cool  gloom  are  awaking, 
There,  let  my  soul  burst  from  its  cavern  of  clay, 
To  float  down  the  warm  spring,  away  and  away! 

FOR    I    WAS    NOT    MADE    MERELY    FOR   MONEY-MAKING. 

At  my  wearisome  task  I  oftentimes  turn 
From  my  bride,  and  my  monitress,  Duty, 

Forgetting  the  strife,  and  the  wrestle  of  life, 
To  talk  with  the  spirit  of  beauty, 

The  multitude's  hum,  and  the  chinking  of  gold, 
Grow  hush  as  the  flying  of  dnv, 


134 


For  on  wings,  pulsing  music,  with  joy  untold, 

My  heart  is  up,  and  away! 
I  fain  would  struggle  and  give  to  birth  ; 
For  I  would  not  pass  away  from  earth, 

And  make  no  sign  ! 
I  yearn  to  utter,  what  might  live  on, 
In  the  world's  heart,  when  I  am  gone. 
I  would  not  plod  on,  like  these  slaves  of  gold, 

Who  shut  up  their  souls,  in  a  dusky  cave  : 
I  would  see  the  world  better,  and  nobler-soul'd, 

Ere  I  dream  of  heaven  in  my  green  turf-grave. 
I  may  toil  till  my  life  is  filled  with  dreariness, 
Toil  till  my  heart  is  a  wreck  in  its  weariness, 
Toil  for  ever,  for  tear-steep t  bread, 
Till  I  go  down  to  the  silent  dead. 
But,  by  this  yearning,  this  hoping,  this  aching, 

I    WAS    NOT    MADE    MERELY    FOR    MONEY-MAKING. 


A  WELCOME  TO  LOUIS  KOSSUTH, 

Ho  !  Patriots  of  old  England,  wake  I 

And  join  ye  heart  and  hand, 
To  welcome  him  for  Freedom's  sake 

Within  our  fatherland  ! 


135 

He  needs  no  proud  triumphal  arch, 

Nor  banners  on  the  wind  : 
In  hearts  that  beat  his  triumph-march, 

Our  Kossuth' s  fitly  shrined  ! 
We  meet  him  here,  we  greet  him  here — 

With  Love's  wide  arms  caress  him  ! 
And  Kings  have  no  such  welcome  dear, 

As  Kossuth  hath  :  God  bless  him. 


He  rose  like  Freedom's  morning  star, 

Where  all  was  darkling,  dim — 
We  saw  his  glory  from  afar, 

And  fought  in  soul  for  him  ! 
Brave  Victor  !  how  his  radiant  brow 

King'd  Freedom's  host  like  Saul  ! 
And  in  his  crown  of  sorrow  now 

He's  royallest  heart  of  all. 
We  meet  him  here,  we  greet  him  here — 

With  Love's  wide  arms  caress  him  ! 
And  Kings  have  no  such  welcome  dear, 

As  Kossuth  hath  :   God  bless  him. 


Ay,  English  hearts  thro'  proud  tears  gush 

With  glory  at  his  name — 
Whose  brave  deeds  made  the  roused  blood  rush 

Alona;  our  veins  like  flame  : 


136 

We  cheer'd  him  thro'  his  hero-strife — 

And,  in  his  presence  met, 
We'll  show  the  world  that  noble  life 

Lives  in  Old  England  yet ! 
We  meet  him  here,  we  greet  him  here — 

With  Love's  wide  arms  caress  him  ! 
And  King's  have  no  such  welcome  dear, 

As  Kossuth  hath  :   God  bless  him. 


He  cometh  dim  with  glorious  dust, 

From  out  his  wrestling  ring  : 
But,  blessings — praises — deathless  trust — 

Like  armies  round  him  cling  ! 
And  Freedom  runs  her  radiant  round, 

Tho'  clouds  shut  out  the  sky  ; 
And  soon  the  World's  great  heart  shall  bound 

To  Kossuth's  conquering  cry. 
We  meet  him  here,  we  greet  him  here — 

With  Love's  wide  arms  caress  him  1 
And  Kings  have  no  such  welcome  dear, 

As  Kossuth  hath  :   God  bless  him. 


His  Hungary  billows  o'er  with  graves 

Of  Martyrs  not  in  vain  : 
See  what  a  ripening  harvest  waves 

Its  fruit  of  that  red  rain  ! 


13t 

Again  his  flaming  sword  shall  glare 

The  Despots'  splendour  dim  : 
And  palsy  strike  the  arm  that  dare 

Not  strike  a  blow  for  him  ! 
We  meet  him  here,  we  greet  him  here — 

With  Love's  wide  arms  caress  him  ! 
And  Kings  have  no  such  welcome  dear, 

As  Kossuth  hath  :   God  bless  him. 

Ring  out,  exuit,  and  clap  your  hands, 

Free  Men  and  Women  brave — 
Shout,  Britain  !  shake  the  startled  lands, 

And  free  the  bounden  Slave  ! 
Come  forth,  make  rnerry  in  the  sun, 

And  give  him  welcome  due  ; 
Heroic  hearts  have  crown'd  him  one 

Of  Earth's  Immortal  few  ! 
We  meet  him  here,  we  greet  him  here — 

With  Love's  wide  arms  caress  him  ! 
And  Kings  have  no  such  welcome  dear, 

As  Kossuth  hath  :   God  bless  him. 


138 


ONWARD  AND   SUNWARD. 

TELL  me  the  song  of  the  beautiful  Stars, 

As  grandly  they  glide  on  their  blue  way  above  us, 
Looking,  despite  of  our  spirit's  sin-scars, 

Down  on  us  tenderly,  yearning  to  love  us  ! 
This  is  the  song  in  their  work-worship  sung, 
Down  thro'  the  world-jewelled  universe  rung  : 
"  Onward  for  ever,  for  evermore  onward," 
And  ever  they  open  their  loving  eyes  Sunward. 

"  Onward,"  shouts  Earth,  with  her  myriad  voices 

Of  music,  aye  answering  the  song  of  the  Seven, 
As  like  a  wing'd  child  of  God's  love  she  rejoices, 

Swinging  her  censer  of  glory  in  heaven. 
And  lo,  it  is  writ  by  the  finger  of  God, 
In  sunbeams  and  flowers  on  the  live-green  sod  : 
Onward  for  ever,  for  evermore  onward, 
And  ever  she  turneth  all  trustfully  Sunward. 

The  mightiest  souls  of  all  time  hover  o'er  us, 

Who  labour'd  like  gods  among  men,  and  have  gone 

Like  great  bursts  of  sun  on  the  dark  way  before  us  : 
They're  with  us,  still  with  us,  our  battle  fight  on, 


139 


Looking  down  victor-brow'd,  from  the  glory-crown'd  hill 
They  beckon,  and  beacon  us,  on,  onward  still : 
And  the  true  heart's  aspirings  are  onward,  still  onward  ; 
It  turns  to  the  Future,  as  earth  turneth  Sunward. 


A  MAIDEN'S  SONG. 

I  LOVE  !  and  Love  hath  given  me 
Sweet  thoughts  to  God  akin 

And  oped  a  living  Paradise 

My  heart  of  hearts  within  : 

0  from  this  Eden  of  my  life 

God  keep  the  Serpent  Sin  ! 

1  love  !  and  into  angel-land 

With  starry  glimpses  peer  ! 
I  drink  in  beauty  like  heaven-wine, 

When  One  is  smiling  near ! 
And  there's  a  Rainbow  round  my  soul 

For  every  falling  tear.    » 

Dear  God  in  heaven  !  keep  without  stain 

My  bosom's  brooding  Dove  : 
0  clothe  it  meet  for  angel-arms, 


140 

And  give  it  place  above  ! 

For  there  is  nothing  from  the  world 

I  yearn  to  take,  but  Love. 


THERE'S  NO  DEARTH  OF  KINDNESS. 

THERE'S  no  dearth  of  kindness 

In  this  world  of  ours  ; 
Only  in  our  blindness 

We  gather  thorns  for  flowers  ! 
Outward,  we  are  spurning — 

Trampling  one  another  ? 
While  we  are  inly  yearning 

At  the  name  of  "  Brother  I" 


There's  no  dearth  of  kindness 

Or  love  among  mankind, 
But  in  darkling  loneness 

Hooded  hearts  grow  blind  1 
Full  of  kindness  tingling, 

Soul  is  shut  from  soul, 
When  they  might  be  mingling 

In  one  kindred  whole  ! 


141 

There's  no  dearth  of  kindness, 

Tho'  it  be  unspoken, 
From  the  heart  it  buildeth 

Rainbow-smiles  in  token — 
That  there  be  none  so  lowly, 

But  have  some  angel-touch  : 
Yet,  nursing  loves  unholy, 

We  live  for  self  too  much  1 

As  the  Wild-rose  bloweth, 

As  runs  the  happy  river, 
Kindness  freely  floweth 

In  the  heart  for  ever. 
But  if  men  will  hanker 

Ever  for  golden  dust, 
Kingliest  hearts  will  canker, 

Brightest  spirits  rust. 

There's  no  dearth  of  kindness 

In  this  world  of  ours  ; 
Only  in  our  blindness 

We  gather  thorns  for  flowers  ! 
O  cherish  God's  best  giving, 

Falling  from  above  ! 
Life  were  not  worth  living, 

Were  it  not  for  Love. 


142 


A  LYRIC  OF  LOVE. 

THE  Lark  that  nestles  nearest  earth, 

To  Heaven's  gate  nighest  sings  ; 
And  loving  thee,  my  lowly  life 

Doth  mount  on  Lark-like  wings  ! 
Thine  eyes  are  starry  promises  : 

And  affluent  above 
All  measure  in  its  blessing,  is 

The  largess  of  thy  love. 


Merry  as  laughter  'mong  the  hills, 

Spring  dances  at  my  heart ! 
And  at  my  wooing  Nature's  soul, 

Into  her  face  will  start  ! 
The  Queen-moon,  in  her  starry  bower 

Looks  happier  for  our  love  ; 
A  dewier  splendour  fills  the  flower, 

And  mellower  coos  the  Dove. 


My  heart  may  sometimes  blind  mine  eyes 

With  utterance  of  tears, 
But  feels  no  pang  for  thee,  Belov'd  1 

But  all  the  more  endears  : 


143 

And  if  life  comes  with  cross  and  care 

Unknown  in  years  of  yore, 
I  know  thou  ;lt  half  the  burden  bear, 

And  I  am  strong  once  more. 

Ah  !  now  I  see  my  life  was  shorn, 

That,  like  the  forest-brook 
When  leaves  are  shed,  my  darkling  soul 

Up  in  heaven's  face  might  look  ! 
And  blessings  on  the  storm  that  gave 

Me  haven  on  thy  breast, 
Where  life  hath  climaxt  like  a  wave 

That  breaks  in  perfect  rest. 


THE  FAMINE-SMITTEN. 

IN  the  tears  of  the  Morning — 

The  smiles  of  the  sun, 
The  green  Earth's  adorning 

Told  spring  had  begun  ! 
Warm  woods  donn'd  their  beauty,  wrought 

Through  long  still  nights, 
And  musical  breezes  brought 

Flowery  delights .: 


144 

The  humming  leaves  flasht 

Rich  in  light,  with  sweet  sound, 
And  the  glad  waters  dasht 

Their  starry  spray  round  1 
The  wood-bines  up-climbing, 

Laught  out,  pink-and-golden, 
And  bees  made  sweet  chiming 

In  roses  half-folden, 
But  where  was  that  infant-band, 

Wont  in  spring  weather 
To  wander  forth,  hand-in-hand, 

Violets  to  gather  ? 
Ah  misery  !  they  slept, 

The  dear  blossoms  of  love  1 
Where  the  green  branches  wept, 

And  the  grass  crept  above  ; 
Melodious  gladness 

Throbb'd  thro'  the  rich  air, 
But  the  anguish  of  madness 

Rent  Poverty's  lair  ; 
For  Famine  had  smitten 

Its  pride  of  life  low, 
And  agony  written 

On  heart  and  on  brow. 
Sweet  from  the  boughs  the  birds 

Sang  in  their  mirth, 
The  lark  messaged  heaven-wards 

Blessings  from  earth — 


145 

But  I  turu'd  where  our  geutle  Lord's 

Loves  lay  in  dearth. 
They  heard  not,  iior  heeded, 

The  sounds  of  life  o'er  them  ! 
They  felt  not,  nor  needed, 

The  hot  tears  wept  for  them  ! 
But  earth-flowers  were  springing 

O'er  human  flowers'  grave, 
And,  0  God  !  what  heart-wringing- 

Their  tender  looks  gave  ! 
They  died  !  died  of  hunger — 

By  bitter  want  blasted  ! 
While  wealth  for  the  Wronger 

Ran  over  untasted — 
While  Pomp,  in  joy's  rosy  bow'rs, 

Wasted  life's  measure, 
Chiding  the  lagging  hours, 

Wearied  of  pleasure  ! 
They  died  !  while  men  hoarded 

The  free  gifts  of  God  : 
They  died  !  'tis  recorded 

In  letters  of  blood. 
Yet  the  corn  on  the  hills 

Waves  its  showery-gold  crown  ; 
Still  Nature's  lap  fills 

With  the  good  heaven  drops  down. 
0  !  this  world  might  be  lighted 

With  Eden's  first  smile — 
7 


14G 

Angel-haunted — unbligbted, 

With  freedom  for  Toil : 
But  they  wring  out  our  blood 

For  their  banquet  of  gold  ! 
They  annul  laws  of  God, 

Soul  and  body  are  sold ! 
Hark  now  !  hall  and  palace, 

Ring  out,  dome  and  rafter  ! 
Ay,  laugh  on,  ye  callous  ! 

•  In  Hell  there'll  be  laughter  : 
But  tremble,  hell-makers  ; 

The  shorn  among  men — 
The  world's  image-breakers 

Grow  mighty  again  ; 
There  be  stern  times  a-coming, 

The  dark  days  of  reck'niug, 
The  storms  are  up-looming — 

The  Nemesis  wak'ning  ! 
On  heaven,  blood  shall  call, 

Earth  quake  with  pent  thunder, 
And  shackle  and  thrall 

Shall  be  riven  asunder. 
It  will  come,  it  shall  come, 

Impede  it  what  may  : 
Up,  People  !  and  welcome 

Your  glorious  day  ! 


OUR  FATHERS  ARE  PRAYING  FOR  PAUPER 
PAY. 

SMITTEN  stones  will  talk  with  fiery  tongues, 

And  the  worm,  when  trodden,  will  turn  ; 
But,  Cowards,  ye  cringe  to  the  cruellest  wrongs, 

And  answer  with  never  a  spurn. 
Then  torture,  0  Tyrants,  the  spiritless  drove, 

Old  England's  Helots  will  bear  : 
There's  no  hell  in  their  hatred,  no  God  in  their  love, 

]S"or  shame  in  their  dearth's  despair. 
For  our  Fathers  are  praying  for  Pauper-pay, 

Our  Mother's  with  Death's  kiss  are  white  ; 
Our  Sons  are  the  rich  man's  Serfs  by  day, 

And  our  Daughters  his  Slaves  by  night. 


The  Tearless  are  drunk  with  our  tears :  have  they  driven 

The  God  of  the  poor  man  mad  ? 
For  we  weary  of  waiting  the  help  of  Heaven, 

And  the  battle  goes  still  with  the  bad. 
0  but  death  for  death,  and  life  for  life, 

It  were  better  to  take  and  give, 
With  hand  to  throat,  and  knife  to  knife, 

Than  die  out  as  thousands  live  ! 


148 


For  our  Fathers  arc  praying  for  Pauper-pay, 
Our  Mothers  with  Death's  kiss  are  white  ; 

Our  Sons  are  the  rich  man's  Serfs  by  day, 
And  our  Daughters  his  Slaves  by  night. 


Fearless  and  few  were  the  Heroes  of  old, 

Who  play'd  the  peerless  part : 
We  are  fifty-fold,  but  the  gangrene  Gold 

Hath  eaten  out  Hampden's  heart. 
With  their  faces  to  danger,  like  free-men  they  fought, 

With  their  daring,  all  heart  and  hand  : 
And  the  thunder-deed  follow'd  the  lightning-thought, 

When  they  stood  for  their  own  good  land. 
Our  Fathers  are  praying  for  Pauper-pay, 

Our  Mothers  with  Death's  kiss  are  white  ; 
Our  Sons  are  the  rich  man's  Serfs  by  day, 

And  our  Daughters  his  Slaves  by  night. 


When  the  heart  of  one  half  the  world  doth  beat 

Akin  to  the  brave  and  the  true, 
And  the  tramp  of  Democracy's  earthquake  feet 

Goes  thrilling  the  wide  world  through, — 
We  should  not  be  living  in  darkness  and  dust, 

And  dying  like  slaves  in  the  night ; 
But,  big  with  the  might  of  the  inward  "  must," 

We  should  battle  for  Freedom  and  Right ! 


149 


For  our  Fathers  arc  praying  for  Pauper-pay, 
Our  Mothers  with  Death's  kiss  are  white  ; 

Our  Sons  are  the  rich  man's  Serfs  by  day, 
And  our  Daughters  his  Slaves  by  night. 


A  CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLES. 

LIKE  a  strong-  man  in  torture,  the  weary  world  turneth, 

To  clutch  Freedom's  robe  round  her  slavery's  starkness  ; 
With  shame  and  with  shudder,  poor  mother  ;  sheyearneth 

O'er  wrongs  that  are  done  in  her  dearth  and  her  dark- 
ness. 
O  gather  thy  strength  up,  and  crush  the  Abhorred, 

Who  murder  thy  poor  heart,  and  drain  thy  life-springs, 
And  are  crowned  to  hide  the  Cain-brand  on  their  fore- 
head : 

O  let  them  be  last  of  the  Queens  and  the  Kings  1 

By  the  lovers  and  friends  we  have  tenderly  cherisht, 
Who  made  the  Cause  soar  up  like  flame  at  their  breath, 

Who  struggled  like  Gods  met  in  fight,  and  have  perisht 
In  poverty's  battle  with  grim  daily  death  : 


150 


O,  by  all  dear  ones  that  bitterly  plead  for  us — 

Life-flowers  tied  up  in  the  heart's  breaking  strings — 

Sisters  that  weep  for  us — mothers  that  bleed  for  us — 
Let  these  be  last  of  the  Queens  and  the  Kings  ! 

Sun  and  Rain  kindle  greenly  the  graves  of  our  Martyrs, 

Ye  might  not  tell  where  the  brave  blood  ran  like  rain  ! 
But  there  it  burns  ever  !  and  heaven's  weeping  waters 

And  branding  suns  never  shall  whiten  the  stain  ! 
Remember  the  hurtling  the  Tyrants  have  wrought  us, 

And  smite  till  each  helm  bravely  flashes  and  rings  I 
Life  for  life,  blood  for  blood,  is  the  lesson  they've  taught 
us, 

And  be  these  the  last  of  the  Queens  and  the  Kings  1 

Ho  !  weary  Nightwatch,  is  there  light  on  the  summit  ? 

Yearner  up  through  the  Night,  say,  is  there  hope  ? 
For  deeper  in  darkness  than  fathom  of  plummet, 

Our  Bark  thro'  the  tempest  doth  stagger  and  grope  ! 
"-To  God's  unforgiven,  to  caitiff  and  craven — 

To  Crown  and  to  Sceptre,  a  cleaving  curse  clings  : 
Ye  must  fling  them  from  deck,  would  ye  steer  into  heaven, 

For  Death  tracks  the   last  of  the   Queens   and   the 
Kings  !" 


151 


HOPE  ON,    HOPE    EVER. 

HOPE  on,  hope  ever  !  though  to-day  be  dark, 

The  sweet  sunburst  may  smile  on  thee  to-morrow  : 
Tho'  them  art  lonely,  there's  an  eye  will  mark 

Thy  loneliness,  and  guerdon  all  thy  sorrow  ! 
Tho'  thou  must  toil  'inong  cold  and  sordid  men, 

With  none  to  echo  back  thy  thought,  or  love  thee, 
Cheer  up,  poor  heart  !  thou  dost  not  beat  in  vain, 

For  God  is  over  all,  and  heaven  above  thee — 
Hope  on,  hope  ever. 

The  iron  may  enter  in  and  pierce  thy  soul, 

But  cannot  kill  the  love  within  thee  burning  : 
The  tears  of  misery,  thy  bitter  dole, 

Can  never  quench  thy  true  heart's  seraph  yearning 
For  better  things  :  nor  crush  thy  ardour's  trust, 

That  Error  from  the  mind  shall  be  uprooted, 
That  Truths  shall  dawn  as  flowers  spring  from  the  dust, 

And  Love  be  cherisht  where  Hate  was  enibruted  ! 
Hope  on,  hope  ever. 

I  know  'tis  hard  to  bear  the  sneer  and  taunt, 

With  the  heart's  honest  pride  at  midnight  wrestle, 

To  feel  the  killing  canker-worm  of  Want, 

While  rich  rogues  in  their  stolen  luxury  nestle  ; 


For  I  have  felt  it.     Yet  from  Earth's  cold  Real 
My  soul  looks  out  on  coming  things,  and  cheerful 

The  warm  Sunrise  floods  all  the  land  Ideal, 
And  still  it  whispers  to  the  worn  and  tearful, 
Hope  on,  hope  ever. 


Hope  on,  hope  ever  !  after  darkest  night, 

Comes,  full  of  loving  life,  the  laughing  Morning  ; 
Hope  on,  hope  ever  !  Spring-tide,  flusht  with  light, 

Aye  crowns  old  Winter  with  her  rich  adorning. 
Hope  on,  hope  ever  !  yet  the  time  shall  come, 

When  man  to  man  shall  be  a  friend  and  brother  ; 
And  this  old  world  shall  be  a  happy  home, 

And  all  Earth's  family  love  one  another  ! 
Hope  on,  hope  ever. 


THE    PEOPLE'S  ADVENT. 

'Tis  coming  up  the  steep  of  Time, 

And  this  old  world  is  growing  brighter  I 

We  may  not  see  its  dawn  sublime, 

Yet  high  hopes  make  the  heart  throb  lighter. 


We  may  be  sleeping  in  the  ground, 
When  it  awakes  the  world  in  wonder  ; 

But  we  have  felt  it  gathering  round, 
And  heard  its  voice  of  living  thunder. 

'Tis  coming  !  yes,  'tis  coming ! 


'Tis  coming  now,  the  glorious  time, 

Foretold  by  Seers,  and  sung  in  story  ; 
For  which,  when  thinking  was  a  crime, 

Souls  leapt  to  heaven  from  scaffolds  gory  ! 
They  pass'd,  nor  sec  the  work  they  wrought, 

Now  the  crown'd  hopes  of  centuries  blossom  ! 
But  the  live  lightning  of  their  thought 

And  daring  deeds,  doth  pulse  Earth's  bosom. 
'Tis  coming  !  yes,  'tis  coming  I 


Creeds,  Empires,  Systems,  rot  with  age, 

But  the  great  People's  ever  youthful  ! 
And  it  shall  write  the  Future's  page, 

To  our  humanity  more  truthful  ! 
The  gnarliest  heart  hath  tender  chords, 

To  waken  at  the  name  of  "  Brother  ;" 
And  time  comes  when  brain-scorpion  words 

We  shall  not  speak  to  sting  each  other. 

'Tis  coming  !  yes,  'tis  coming  ! 


154 

Out  of  the  light,  ye  Priests,  nor  fling 

Your  dark,  cold  shadows  on  us  longer  1 
Aside  1  thou  world-wide  curse,  call'd  King  1 

The  People's  step  is  quicker,  stronger. 
There's  a  Divinity  within 

That  makes  men  great,  whene'er  they  will  it. 
God  works  with  all  who  dare  to  win, 

And  the  time  cometh  to  reveal  it. 

'Tis  coming  !  yes,  'tis  coming  1 


Freedom  !  the  tyrants  kill  thy  braves  ; 

Yet  in  our  memories  live  the  sleepers, 
Tho'  murder'd  millions  feed  the  graves, 

Dug  by  Death's  fierce,  red-handed  reapers  ; 
The  world  shall  not  for  ever  bow 

To  things  which  mock  God's  own  endeavour  ; 
'Tis  nearer  than  they  wot  of  now, 

When  flowers  shall  wreathe  the  sword  for  ever. 
'Tis  coming  !  yes,  'tis  coming  ! 


Fraternity  !     Love's  other  name  ! 

Dear,  heaven-connecting  link  of  Being  ! 
Then  shall  we  grasp  thy  golden  dream, 

As  souls,  full-statured,  grow  far-seeing. 
Thou  shalt  unfold  oui1  better  part, 

And  in  our  Life-nip  yu-M  more  honey  : 


1 55 


Light  up  with  joy  the  poor  man's  heart, 

And  Love's  own  world,  with  smiles  more  sunny 
T'is  coming  !  yes,  'tis  coming  ! 

Ay,  it  must  come  1     The  Tyrant's  throne 

Is  crumbling  with  our  hot  tears  rusted  ; 
The  Sword  earth's  mighty  have  leant  on 

Is  canker'd,  with  our  heart's  blood  crusted. 
Room  !  for  the  men  of  Mind  make  way! 

Ye  robber  Rulers,  pause  no  longer  ; 
Ye  cannot  stay  the  opening  day  : 

The  world  rolls  on,  the  light  grows  stronger, — 
The  People's  Advent 's  coming  ! 


KISSES. 

ONE  kiss  more,  Sweet ! 
Soft  as  voluptuous  wind  of  the  west, 
Or  silkenest  surge  of  thy  purple-vein'd  breast, 
Ripe  lips  all  ruddily  melting  apart, 
Drink  up  the  honey  and  wine  of  my  heart  I 

One  kiss  more,  Sweet ! 
Warm  as  a  morning  sunbeam's  dewy  gold 
Slips  in  a  red  Rose's  fragrantest  fold, 


156 

Sets  its  green  blood  all  a-blush,  burning  up 
At  the  fresh  feel  of  life,  in  its  crimson  cup  I 

One  kiss  more,  Sweet ! 
Full  as  the  flush  of  the  sea-waves  grand, 
Flooding  the  sheeny  fire  out  of  the  sand  ; 
On  all  the  shores  of  my  being  let  Bliss 
Break  with  its  neap-tide  sea  in  a  kiss  1 


PEACE. 

YES,  Peace  is  beautiful  ;  and  I  do  yearn 

For  her  to  clasp  the  World's  poor  tortured  heart, 

As  sweet  spring  warmth  cloth  brood  o'er  coming  flowers. 

But  peace  with  these  Leviathans  of  blood — 

Who  pirate  crimson  seas,  devouring  men  ? 

Give  them  the  hand  of  brotherhood — whose  fangs 

Are  in  our  hearts  with  the  grim  blood-hound's  grip  ? 

Would'st  see  Peace,  idiot-like,  with  smirk  and  smile, 

A-planting  flowers  to  coronal  Truth's  grave  ? 

Peace,  merry-making  round  the  funeral  pyre, 

Where  Freedom,  fiery-curtained,  weds  with  death  ? 

Peace,  mirroring  her  form  by  pools  of  blood, — 

Crowning  the  Croat  in  Vienna's  fosse, 

With  all  sweet  influences  of  thankful  eyes, 


157 


For  murder  of  the  glorious  Bnrschenschaft ! 

Peace  with  Oppression,  which  doth  tear  dear  friends 

And  brothers  from  our  side  to-day,  and  comes 

To  eat  OUR  hearts  and  drink  OUR  blood  to-morrow  ? 

Out  on't !  it  is  the  Tyrant's  cunning  cant, 

The  robe  of  sheen  flung  o'er  its  deadly  daggers, 

Which  start  to  life,  whene'er  it  hugs  to  death, 

I  answer,  War  ! — war  with  the  cause  of  war, — 

War  with  our  misery,  want,  and  wretchedness, — 

War  with  curst  Gold,  which  is  an  endless  war 

On  Love,  and  God,  and  our  Humanity  ! 

Brothers,  I  bid  ye  forth  to  glorious  war  ! 

Patch  fig-leaves  o'er  the  naked  truth  no  more. 

The  stream  of  Time  runs  red  with  our  best  blood  ! 

Time's  seed-field  we  have  sown  with  fratricide, 

And  dragon's  teeth  have  sprung,  ay,  in  our  hearts. 

O  !  we  have  fought  and  bled  on  land  and  sea, 

Heapt  glory's  car  with  myriads  of  the  brave, 

Spilt  blood  by  oceans — treasures  by  the  million, 

At  every  Tyrant's  beck.     Had  we  but  shed 

Such  warm  and  eloquent  blood  for  Freedom's  faith, 

War's  star  in  heaven  had  lost  its  name  ere  now. 

"  Brothers  1"  I  cried, — well,  Brothers,  brother  slaves  ! 

()  !  but  to  give  ye  slaves  THEIR  valiant  heart, 

Whose  dumb,  dead  dust  is  worth  your  living  souls — 

Dear  God  !  'twere  sweet  to  kiss  the  scaffold-block  ! 

I'd  proudly  leap  death's  darkness,  to  let  shine 

The  Future's  promise  thro' your  sorrow's  toar«  ! 


15S 


Sorrow  ?  ah,  no  !  ye  feel  not  sense  so  holy  : 
The  worm  of  misery  riots  in  your  hearts — 
Ye  hear  your  younglings  in  the  drear  midnight 
Make  moan  for  bread,  when  ye  have  none  to  give  !- 
Ye  drain  your  life,  warm,  for  the  vulture's  drink  ! 
The  groaning  land  is  choked  with  living  death. 
O  !  ye  are  mated  to  the  things  of  scorn, 
And  I  have  heard  your  miserable  madness, 
Belcht  forth  in  drunken  paeans  to  your  tyrants, 
Pledging  your  murderers  to  the  hell  they've  made ! 
Ah,  Christ  !  was  it  for  this,  thou  sudden  sun, 
Did'st  light  these  centuries  with  thy  dying  smile  ? — 
Was  it  for  this,  so  many  and  so  many 
Have  hackt  their  spirit-swords  against  our  fetters 
And  killing  cords,  that  bleed  our  hearts  to  death — 
Wept  griefs  might  turn  the  soul  grey  in  an  hour — 
Broke  their  great  hearts  for  love,  and,  in  despair, 
Dasht  their  immortal  crowns  to  earth,  and  died  ? 
Was  it  for  this  the  countless  Host  of  Martyrs, 
Becrown'd  and  robed  in  fiery  martyrdom, 
Beat  out  a  golden-aged  Future  from 
The  angel-metal  of  their  noble  lives — 
Clomb  the  red  scaffold — strain'd  their  weary  eyes, 
Across  the  mists  of  ages,  for  one  glimpse 
Of  midnight  burning  into  that  bright  Dawn 
Now  bursting  golden,  up  the  skies  of  time  ? 
When  will  ye  put  your  human  glory  on  ? 
How  loner  will  ve  lip  darkliny;  desolate. 


1  f>9 


With  barren  brain,  blind  life,  and  fallow  heart  ? 

The  hollow  yearning  grave  will  kindly  close, 

And  flowers  spring  where  the  mould  lay  freshly  dark ! 

The  leaves  will  burst  from  out  the  naked'st  boughs, 

Fire-ripen'd  into  glorious  greenery, 

Waste  Moor  and  Fen  will  kindle  into  spring  ; 

How  long  will  ye  lie  darkling,  desolate  ? 

Lord  God  Almighty  !  what  a  spring  of  freedom 

Awaits  to  burst  the  winter  of  our  world  ! 

O!  if  aught  moving  thrills  a  brother's  love, 

Which  pleads  for  utterance  in  blinding  tears, 

Then  let  these  words  burn  living  in  your  souls, 

Snatch  Fear's  cold  hand  from  off  your  palsied  hearts, 

And  send  the  intrepid  shudder  through  your  veins. 

Helots  of  Albion  !  Penury's  nurslings  !  rise, 

And  swear,  in  God's  name,  and  in  Heaven's  or  Hell's, 

Ye  will  bear  witness  at  the  birth  of  Freedom  ! 

Arise,  and  front  the  blessed  light  of  Heaven, 

With  tyrant-quailing  manhood  in  your  looks  ! 

Arise,  go  forth  to  glorious  war  for  right, 

And  justice,  and  mankind's  high  destiny  ! 

Arise,  'tis  Freedom's  bleeding  light,  strike  homo 

Wherever  tyrants  lift  the  gorgon-head  1 

There  is  a  chasm  in  the  coming  years, 

A-gape  for  strife's  Niagara  of  blood — 

Or  to  be  bridged  by  brave  hearts  linkt  in  love. 

The  world  is  stirring  with  its  mighty  purpose  : 

Xo  more  be  laggards  in  the  march  of  men. 


160 


The  Vulture  Despotism  spreads  its  wide  wings 
Right  royally,  to  give  ye  broader  mark  1 
And  the  hag  Evil  sickens  unto  death, 
With  her  sore  travail  o'er  the  birth  of  God. 
And  yet  shall  War's  red-letter'd  creed  die  out  ; 
Where  blood  is  running,  shall  the  wild-flowers  blow  ; 
Where  men  are  groaning,  shall  their  children  sing  ; 
And  peace  and  love  re-Genesis  the  world. 


EDEN. 

THERE  is  not  a  rift  in  the  blue  sky  now, 

Where  a  million  tempests  tore  it  ; 
There  is  not  a  furrow  on  Ocean's  brow, 

Tho'  a  million  years  have  past  o'er  it. 
And  for  all  the  storms  and  the  strifes  that  have  roll'd 

Down  the  ages  grim  and  gory  ; 
Earth  weareth  her  pleasant  face,  as  of  old, 

And  laughs  in  her  morning  glory. 
And  Man — tho'  he  beareth  the  brand  of  Sin, 

And  the  flesh  and  the  devil  have  bound  him—- 
Hath a  spirit  within,  to  old  Eden  akin, 

Only  nurture  up  Eden  around  him. 


161 


0  the  cloud  may  have  fall'n  on  the  human  face, 

And  its  lordliest  beauty  blighted  ; 
Fur  love  hath  gone  out  with  a  dark'ning  trace, 

Where  the  inward  glory  lighted. 
Vet  the  old  world  of  love  liveth  still  in  the  heart, 

As  we've  many  a  sweet  revealing  : 
And  its  rich  fossil-jewels  in  tears  will  up-start 

With  the  warm  flood  of  holier  feeling. 
Ay,  Man — tho'  he  beareth  the  brand  of  Sin, 

And  the  flesh  and  the  devil  have  bound  him — 
Hath  a  spirit  within,  to  old  Eden  akin, 

Only  nurture  up  Eden  around  him 

O  tne  terrors,  the  tortures,  the  miseries  dark — 

That  have  curst  us,  and  crusht,  and  cankered ! 
Yet,  aye,  from  the  Deluge,  Humanity's  Ark 

Hath  on  some  serene  Ararat  anchored. 
O  the  golden  chains  that  link  heaven  to  earth, 

The  rusts  of  all  time  cannot  sever  ! 
Evil  shall  die  in  its  own  dark  dearth, 

And  the  Good  liveth  on  for  ever. 
And  Man — tho'  he  beareth  the  brand  of  Sin, 

And  the  flesh  and  the  devil  have  bound  him — 
Hath  a  spirit  within,  to  old  Eden  akin, 

Only  nurture  up  Eden  around  him. 


162 


THE  MEN  OF  FORTY-EIGHT. 

THEY  rose  in  Freedom's  rare  sunrise, 

Like  Giants  roused  from  wine  ; 
And  in  their  hearts  and  in  their  eyes, 

The  God  leapt  up  divine  ! 
Their  souls  flasht  out  like  naked  swords, 

Unsheathed  for  fiery  fate  I 
Strength  went  like  battle  with  their  words- 

The  Men  of  Forty-eight, 

Hurrah  ! 

For  the  Men  of  Forty-eight. 

Dark  days  have  fall'n,  yet  in  the  strife 

They  bate  no  hope  sublime, 
And  bravely  works  the  exultant  life, 

Their  hearts  pulse  thro'  the  time  : 
As  grass  is  greenest  trodden  down, 

So  suffering  makes  men  great, 
And  this  dark  tide  shall  richly  crown 

The  work  of  Forty-eight, 

Hurrah  ! 

For  the  Men  of  Forty-eight. 


Some  in  a  bloody  burial  sleep, 

Like  Greeks  to  glory  gone, 
But  in  their  steps  avengers  leap 

"With  their  proof-armour  on  : 
And  hearts  beat  high  with  dauntless  trust 

To  triumph  soon  or  late, 
Tho'  they  be  mould'ring  down  in  dust — 

Brave  Men  of  Forty-eight  ! 

Hurrah  ! 

For  the  Men  of  Forty-eight  ! 

0  when  the  world  wakes  up  to  worst 

The  Tyrants  once  again, 
And  Freedom's  summons-shout  shall  burst, 

Rare  music  !  on  the  brain, — 
With  heart  to  heart,  in  many  a  land, 

Ye'll  find  them  all  elate — 
Brave  remnant  of  that  Spartan-band, 

The  Men  of  Forty-eight. 

Hurrah  ! 

For  the  Men  of  Forty-eight. 


164 


OUR  LAND. 

"Tis  the  Land  that  our  stalwart  fore-sires  trode, 

Where  the  brave  and  the  heroic-soul'd 
Implanted  our  freedom  with  their  best  blood, 

In  the  martyr-days  of  old. 
Ttie  huts  of  the  lowly  gave  Liberty  birth, 

Their  hear.ts  were  her  cradle  glorious, 
And  wherever  her  foot-prints  lettered  the  earth, 

Great  spirits  up-sprang  victorious, 
In  our  rare  old  Land,  our  dear  old  Land, 

With  its  memories  bright  and  brave, 
And  sing  hey  for  the  hour  its  sons  shall  band 

To  free  it  of  Tyrant  and  Slave. 

Alfred  was  of  us,  and  Shakespeare's  thought 

Bekings  us,  all  crowns  above  ! 
And  Freedom's  dear  faith  a  fierce  splendour  caught 

From  our  grand  old  Milton's  love  ! 
And  we  should  be  marching  on  gallantly, 

And  striding  from  glory  to  glory, 
For  the  Right  with  our  Might  striking  valiantly, 

On  the  track  of  the  famous  in  story — 
For  our  rare  old  Land,  our  dear  old  Land, 

With  its  memories  bright  and  brave, 


165 

And  sing  hey  for  the  hour  its  sons  shall  band 
To  free  it  of  Tyrant  and  Slave. 

On  Xaseby-field  of  the  fight  sublime, 

Our  old  red  Rose  doth  blow  ! 
Would  to  God  that  the  soul  of  that  earlier  time 

Might  marshal  us  conquering  now  ! 
On  into  the  Future's  fair  clime  the  world  sweeps, 

And  the  time  trumpets  true  men  to  freedom  : 
At  the  heart  of  our  helots  the  mounting  God  leaps, 

But  0  for  the  Moses  to  lead  'em  ! 
For  our  rare  old  Land,  our  dear  old  Land, 

With  its  memories  bright  and  brave  ! 
And  sing  hey  for  the  hour  its  sons  shall  band 

To  free  it  of  Tyrant  and  Slave. 

What  do  we  lack,  that  the  ruffian  Wrong 

Should  starve  us  'mid  heaps  of  gold  ? 
We  have  brains  as  broad,  we  have  arms  as  strong, 

We  have  hearts  as  big  and  as  bold  ! 
Will  a  thousand  years  more  of  meek  suffering  school 

Our  lives  to  a  sterner  bravery  ? 
No  !  down  and  down  with  their  robber  rule, 

And  up  from  the  land  of  slavery  ! 
For  our  rare  old  Land,  our  dear  old  Land, 

With  its  memories  bright  and  brave  ! 
And  sing  hey  for  the  hour  its  sons  shall  baud 

To  free  it  of  Tyrant  and  Slave 


166 


SWEET   SPIRIT  OF  MY  LOVE 

SWEET  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
Thro'  all  the  world  we  walk  apart : 

Thou  mayst  not  in  my  bosom  lie  : 
I  may  not  press  thee  to  my  heart, 

Nor  see  love-thinkings  light  thine  eye  : 
Yet  art  thou  with  me.     All  my  life 

Orbs  out  in  thy  warm  beauty's  sphere  ; 
My  bravest  dreams  of  thee  are  rife, 

And  coloured  with  thy  presence  dear. 


Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  1 
I  know  how  beautiful  thou  art, 

But  never  tell  the  starry  thought  : 
I  only  whisper  to  my  heart, 

"  She  lights  with  heaven  thy  earthliest  spot." 
And  birds  that  night  and  day  rejoice, 

And  fragrant  winds,  give  back  to  me 
A  music  ringing  of  thy  voice, 

And  surge  my  heart's  love-tide  to  thee. 


167 


Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
The  Spring  and  Summer  bloom-bedight, 

That  garland  Earth  with  raiubow-showers,- 
Morn's  kissing  breath,  and  eyes  of  light, 

That  wake  in  smiles  the  winking  flowers, 
The  air  with  honey'd  fragrance  fed, 

The  flashing  waters, — soughing  tree, — 
Noon's  golden  glory, — sundown  red, 

Aye  warble  into  songs  of  thee. 


Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
When  Night's  soft  silence  clothes  the  earth, 

And  wakes  the  passionate  bird  of  love  ; 
And  Stars  laugh  out  in  golden  mirth, 

And  yearning  souls  divinelier  move  ; 
When  God's  breath  hallows  every  spot, 

And,  lapp'd  in  feeling's  luxury, 
The  heart's  break-full  of  tender  thought  ; 

Then  art  thou  with  me,  still  with  me. 


Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
I  listen  for  thy  footfall, — feel 

Thy  look  is  burning  on  me,  such 
As  reads  my  heart  :  I  sometimes  reel 

And  throb,  expectant  for  thy  touch  1 


166 

For  by  the  voice  of  woods  and  brooks, 
And  flowers  with  virgin-fragrance  wet, 

And  earnest  Stars  with  yearning  looks, 
I  know  that  we  shall  mingle  yet. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
Strange  places  on  me  smile,  as  thou 

Hadst  pass'd,  and  left  thy  beauty's  tints  : 
The  wild-flowers  even  the  secret  know, 

And  light  and  shade  flash  mystic  hints  : 
Meseems,  like  olden  Gods,  thou 'It  come 

In  cloud  ;  but  mine  anointed  eyes 
Shall  see  the  glory  burn  thro'  gloom, 

And  clasp  thee,  Sweet  !  with  large  surprise. 


THE  BRIDAL- 

SHE  comes  !  the  blushing  Bridal  Dawn, 
With  her  Auroral  splendours  on  ! 
And  green  Earth  never  lovelier  shone  : 

She  danceth  on  her  golden  way, 
In  dainty  dalliance  with  the  May, 
Jubilant  o'er  the  happy  day  ! 


169 

Earth  weareth  heaven  for  bridal-riug, 
And  the  best  garland  of  glory,  Spring 
From  out  old  Winter's  world  can  bring. 

The  green  blood  reddens  in  the  rose  : 
And  underneath  white-budding  boughs 
The  violets  purple  in  rich  rows. 

High  up  in  air  the  Chestnuts  blow, 
The  live-green  Apple-tree's  flush  bough 
Floateth,  a  cloud  of  rosy  snow  ! 

Cloud-shadow-ships  swim  faerily 
Over  the  greenery's  sunny  sea, 
Whose  warm  tides  ripple  down  the  lea. 

The  Birds,  a-brooding,  strive  to  sing, 
Feeling  the  life  warm  'neath  the  wing  : 
Their  love,  too,  burgeons  with  the  Spring  ! 

The  winds  that  make  the  flowers  blow, 
Heavy  with  balm,  breathe  soft  and  low, 
A  budding  warmth,  an  amorous  glow  ! 

They  kiss  like  some  endearing  mouth, 

More  sweet  than  the  Sabean  South, 

And  balm  the  splendour's  drooping  drouth 

8 


no 

Such  a  delicious  feel  doth  flood 
The  eyes,  as  laves  the  burning  bud 
When  June-rains  feed  ambrosial  blood. 

O,  merrily  Life  doth  revel  and  reign 
Light  in  heart,  and  blithe  in  brain  ; 
Running  like  wine  in  every  vein. 

Alive  with  eyes,  the  Village  sees 

The  Bridal  dawning  from  the  trees, 

And  Housewives  swarm  i'  the  sun  like  Bees. 

Silence  sits  i'  the  Belfry-Choir  ! 
Up  in  the  twinkling  air  the  spire 
Throbs,  golden  in  the  bickering  fire. 

The  winking  windows  burn  and  blush 
With  colours  rare  as  floAV  and  flush 
Thro'  summer  sunsets  bloom'd  and  hush. 

But,  enter  :  lordlier  splendours  brim, 
Such  mists  of  gold  and  purple  swim, 
And  the  light  falls  so  rich  and  dim. 

Even  so  doth  Love  Life's  doors  unbar, 
Where  all  the  hidden  glories  are, 
That  from  the  windows  shone  afar. 


171 

Love's  lovely  to  the  passers-by, 
But  they  who  love  are  region'd  high 
On  th'  hills  of  Bliss,  with  heaveu  nigh. 

Sumptuous  as  Iris,  when  she  swims 
With  rainbow-robe  on  dainty  limbs, 
The  Bride's  rare  loveliness  o'erbrims  ! 

The  gazers  drink  rich  overflows, 
Her  cheek  a  livelier  damask  glows, 
And  on  his  arm  she  leans  more  close. 

A  drunken  joy  reels  in  his  blood, 
He  wanders  an  enchanted  wood, 
He  ranges  realms  of  perfect  good. 

Dear  God  I  that  he  alone  hath  grace 
To  light  such  splendour  in  her  face, 
And  win  the  blessing  of  embrace  ! 

She  wears  her  maiden  modesty 
With  tearful  grace  toucht  tenderly, 
Yet  with  a  ripe  Expectancy  ! 

Her  virgin  veil  reveals  a  form, 

Flowering  from  the  bud  so  warm, 

It  needs  must  break  the  Cestus-charm, 


172 

Last  night,  with  wedable,  white  arms, 

And  thoughts  that  throng'd  with  quaint  alarms, 

She  trembled  o'er  her  mirror'd  charms, 

Like  Eve  first-glassing  her  new  life  ; 
And  the  Maid  startled  at  the  Wife, 
Heart-pained  with  a  sweet,  warm  strife. 

The  unknown  sea  moans  on  her  shore 
Of  life  :  she  hears  the  breakers  roar  ; 
But,  trusting  Him,  she'll  fear  no  more  ; 

For,  o'er  the  deep  seas  there  is  calm, 
Full  as  the  hush  of  all-heaven's  psalm  : 
The  golden  goal, — the  Victor's  palm  ! 

And  at  her  heart  Love  sits  and  sings, 
And  broodeth  warmth,  begetting  wings 
Shall  lift  her  life  to  higher  things. 

The  Blessing  given,  the  ring  is  on  ; 
And  at  God's  Altar  radiant  run 
The  currents  of  two  lives  in  one  1 

Husht  with  happiness,  every  sense 
Is  crowded  at  the  heart  intense  ; 
And  silence  hath  such  eloquence  ! 


173 

Down  to  his  feet  her  meek  eyes  stoop, 
As  there,  her  love  should  pour  its  cup  ; 
But,  like  a  King,  he  lifts  them  up. 

Her  flashing  face  to  heaven  up-turns, 
As  for  God's  gracious  kiss  it  yearns  : 
Through  all  her  life  Hope's  sunrise  burns  ! 

And  now  she  trembles  to  his  breast, 
To  make  it  aye  her  happy  nest, 
And  proudly  crown  his  loving  quest  : 

His  arms  her  hyacinth  head  caress, 
And  fold  her  fragrant  sleuderness, 
With  all  its  touching  tenderness. 

Now,  on  heaven's  coast  of  crystal  crown'd 
Hesper  lights  life's  outward-bound  : 
And  Evening  folds  her  purple  round. 

A  palace  rich  with  glorious  shows 
She  maketh  his  life's  narrow  house 
To-night :  but  there  he  keeps  no  rouse  ! 

Alone  they  hold  their  marriage-feast  : 
Fresh  from  the  Chrism  of  the  Priest, 
He  would  not  have  the  happiest  jest 


174 

To  storm  her  brows  with  a  crimson  fine  ; 
And,  sooth,  they  need  no  wings  of  wine 
To  waft  them  into  Love's  divine. 

So  Strength  and  Beauty,  hand-in-hand, 
Go  forth  into  the  honey'd  land, 
Lit  by  the  love-moon  golden-grand, 

Where  God  hath  built  their  Bridal-bower 
And  on  the  top  of  life  they  tower, 
And  taste  of  Eden's  perfect  hour. 

No  lewd  eyes  o'er  my  shoulder  look  ! 
They  do  but  ope  the  blessed  book 
Of  Marriage  in  their  hallowed  nook. 

0,  flowery  be  the  paths  they  press, 
And  ruddiest  human  fruitage  bless 
Them,  with  a  lavish  loveliness  ! 

Melodious  move  their  wedded  life 

Thro'  shocks  of  time,  and  storms  of  strife, 

Husband  true,  and  perfect  Wife  ! 


175 


A  GLIMPSE  OF   AULD   LANG-SYNE. 

EARTH,   garnisht   Bride-like,    bares    her    bosom   to   the 

nestling  Xight, 
Who  hath  come  down  in  glory  from  the  golden  halls  of 

light. 

Ten  thousand  tender,  starry  eyes  smile  o'er  the  world  at 

rest, 
The  weary  world — husht  like  an  infant  on  its  mother's 

breast  ! 

The   great  old  hills  thrust  up  their  foreheads  in  rich- 
sleeping  light  : 
How  proudly-grand,  and  still  they  stand,  worshipping  God 

to-night ! 

The  flowers  have  hung  their  cups  with  gems  of  their  own 

sweetness  wrought, 
And  muse  upon  their  stems,  in  smiling  ecstasy  of  thought  : 

They  have  banquetted  on  beauty,  at  the  fragrant  Eve's 

red  lips, 
And  fold  in  charmed  rest,  with  crowns  upon  their  velvet 

tips. 


176 


Xo  green  tide  sweeps  the  sea  of  leaves,  no  wind-sigh  stirs 

the  sod, 
While  Holiness  broods  dove-like  on  the  soul,  begetting 

God. 

Sweet  hour  !  thou  wak'st  the  feeling  that  we  never  know 

by  day, 
For  Angel  eyes  look  down,  and  read  the  spirit  'neath  the 

clay  : 

Even  while  I  list,  such  music  stealeth  in  upon  my  soul, 
As  though  adown  heaven's  stair  of  stars,  the  seraph- 
harpings  stole — 

Or  I  could  grasp  the  immortal  part  of  life,  and  soar,  and 

soar, 
Such  strong  wings  take  me,  and  my  heart  hath  found  such 

hidden  lore  ! 

It  flings  aside  the  weight  of  years,  and  lovingly  goes  back, 
To  that  sweet  time,  the  dear  old  time,  that  glistens  on  its 
track ! 

Life's  withered  leaves  grow  green  again,  and  fresli  with 
Childhood's  spring, 

As  I  am  welcomed  back  once  more,  within  its  rainbow- 
ring  :— 


177 


The  Past,  with  all  its  gather'tl  charms,  beckons  nie  back 

in  joy, 
And  loving  hearts,  and  open  arms,  re-clasp  me  as  a  boy. 

The  voices  of  the  Loved  and  Lost  are  stirring  at  my 

heart, 
And  Memory's  miser'd  treasures  lead  to  life,  with  sudden 

start, — 

As,  through  her  darkened  windows,  warm  and  glad  sun- 
light creeps  in, 

And  Lang-sync,  glimpst  in  glorious  tears,  my  toil-worn 
heart  doth  win. 

Thou  art  looking,  smiling  on  me,  as  thou  hast  lookt  and 

smiled,  Mother, 
And  I  am  sitting  by  thy  side,  at  heart  a  very  child, 

Mother  ! 

I'm  with  thee  now  in  soul,  sweet  Mother,  much  as  in 

those  hours, 
When  all  my  wealth  was  in  thy  love,  and  in  the  birds  and 

flowers, 

When  the  long  summer  days  were  short,  for  my  glad  soul 

to  live 
The  golden  fulness  of  the  bliss,  each  happy  hour  could 

e'ive. 


178 


When  Heaven  sang  to  niy  innocence,  and  every  leafy 

grove 
And  forest  ach'd  with  music,  as  a  young  heart  aches  with 

love. 

When  life  oped  like  a  flower,  where  clung  my  lips,  to 

quaff  its  honey, 
And  joys  throng'd  like  a  shower  of  gold  king-cups  in 

meadows  sunny. 

I  '11  tell  thee,  Mother  !  since  we  met,  stern  changes  have 

come  o'er  me  : 
Then  life  smiled  like  a  paradise,  the  world  was  all  before 

me. 

0  !  I  was  full  of  trustful  faith  and,  in  my  glee  and  glad- 

ness, 

Deemed  not  that  others  had  begun  as  bright,  whose  end 
was  madness. 

1  knew  not  smiles  could  light  up  eyes,  like  Sunset's  laugh- 

ing glow 

On  some  cold  stream,  which  burns  above,  while  all  runs 
dark  below  ; 

That  on  Love's  summer  sea,  great  souls  go  down,  while 

some,  grown  cold, 
Seal  up  Affection's  living  spring,  and  sell  their  love  for 

gold  ; 


179 


How  they  on  whom  we'd  staked  the  heart  forget  the  early 

vow, 
And  they  who  swore  to  love  through  life  would  pass  all 

coldly  now  ; 

How,  in  the  soul's  dark  hour,  Love's  temple-veil  is  rent 

in  twain, 
And  the  heart  quivers  thorn-crown'd  on  the  cross  of  fiery 

pain. 

And  shattered  idols,  broken  dreams,  come  crowding  on 

my  brain, 
As  speaks  the  spirit-voice  of  days  that  never  come  again. 

It  tells  of  golden  moments  lost — heart  seared — blind  Pas- 
sion's thrall ; 

Life's  spring-tide  blossoms  run  to  waste,  Love's  honey 
turn'd  to  gall. 

It  tells  how  many  and  often  high  resolve  and  purpose 

strong, 
Shaped  on  the  anvil  of  my  heart,  have  died  upon  my 

tongue. 

I  left  thee,  mother,  in  sweet  May,  the  merry  month  of 

flowers, 
To  toil  away  in  dusky  gloom  the  golden  summer-hours. 


180 


I  left  my  world  of  love  behind,  with  soul  for  life  a-thirst- 

ing; 

My  burning  eyelid  dropt  no  tear,  although  my  heart  was 
bursting. 

For  I  had  knit  my  soul  to  climb,  with  poverty  its  burden  ; 
Give  me  but  time,  0  give  me  time,  and  I  would  win  the 
guerdon. 

Ah,   Mother  !    many   a    heart   that   all  my   aspiration 

cherisht 
Hath  fallen  in  the  trampling  strife,  and  in  the  life-march 

perisht. 

We  see  the  bleeding  victims  lie  upon  the  world's  grim 

Altar, 
And  one  by  one  young  feelings  die,  and  dark  doubts  make 

us  falter. 

Mother,  the  world  hath  wreakt  its  part  on  rne,  with  scath- 
ing power, 

Yet  the  best  life  that  heaves  my  heart  runs  for  thee  at 
this  hour, 

And  by  these  holy  yearnings,  by  these  eyes  with  sweet 

tears  wet, 
I  know  there  wells  a  spring  of  love  through  all  my  being 

yet. 


181 


SONG  OF  THE  RED  REPUBLICAN. 

FLING  out  the  red  Banner  !  its  fiery  front  under, 

Come,  gather  ye,  gather  ye,  Champions  of  Right  1 
And  roll  round  the  world,  with  the  voice  of  God's  thunder, 

The  Wrongs  we've  to  reckon,  oppressions  to  smite, 
They  deem  that  we  strike  no  more  like  the  old  Hero-band, 

Victory's  own  battle-hearted  and  brave  : 
Blood  of  Christ !  brothers  mine,  it  were  sweet  but  to  see 
ye  stand, 

Triumph  or  Tomb  welcome,  Glory  or  Grave  ! 


Fling  out  the  red  Banner  in  mountain  and  valley  ! 

Let  Earth  feel  the  tread  of  the  free  once  again  ; 
Now  soldiers  of  Freedom,  for  love  of  God,  rally, 

Old  Earth  yearns  to  know  that  her  children  are  Men. 
We  are  nerved  by  a  thousand  wrongs,  burning  and  bleed- 
ing ; 

Bold  Thoughts  leap  to  birth,  but  the  bold  Deeds  must 

come ; 
And  wherever  Humanity's  yearning  and  pleading, 

One  battle  for  Liberty  strike  we  heart-home. 


182 


Fling  out  the  red  Banner  !  achievements  immortal 

Have  yet  to  be  won  by  the  hands  labour-brown  ; 
And  few,  few  may  euter  the  proud  promise-portal, 

Yet  were  it  in  thought  like  a  glorious  Crown  ! 
And  O  joy  of  the  onset !  sound  trumpet,  array  us  ; 

True  hearts  would  leap  up  were  all  hell  in  our  path. 
Up,  up  from  the  Slave-land  ;  who  stirreth  to  stay  us, 

Shall  fall,  as  of  old,  in  the  Red  Sea  of  wrath. 

Fling  out  the  red  Banner,  O  Sons  of  the  morning  ! 

Young  spirits  abiding  to  burst  into  wings, — 
We  stand  shadow-crown'd,  but  sublime  is  the  warning, 

All  heaven's  grimly  husht,  and  the  Bird  of   Storm 

sings  ! 
"  All's  well,"  saith  the  Sentry  on  Tyranny's  tower, 

While  Hope  by  his  watch-fire  is  grey  and  tear-blind  ; 
Ay,  all's  well !     Freedom's  Altar  burns,  hour  by  hour, 

Live  brands  for  the  fire-damp  with  which  ye  are  mined. 

Fling  out  the  red  Banner  !  the  patriots  perish, 

But  where  their  bones  whiten  the  seed  striketh  root : 
Their  blood  hath  run  red  the  great  harvest  to  cherish  : 

Then  gather  ye,  Reapers,  and  garner  the  fruit. 
Victory  !  victory  !     Tyrants  are  quaking  ! 

The  Titan  of  Toil  from  the  bloody  thrall  starts ; 
The  slaves  are  awaking,  the  dawn-light  is  breaking, 

The  foot-fall  of  Freedom  beats  quick  at  our  hearts  ! 


183 


THE  PATRIOT  TO  HIS  BRIDE., 

WILL  you  leave  the  fond  bosom  of  Home,  where 

Bliss  hath  been  from  your  earliest  waking  ? 
Can  you  give  its  endearments  to  come,  where 

Life  hath  many  a  hot  heart-aching  ? 
Have  you  counted  the  cost  to  stand  by  me, 

In  the  battle  I  fight  for  Man  ? 
And  shall  your  angel-love  deify  me, 

Who  stand  in  the  world's  dark  ban  ? 
0,  a  daring  high  soul  you  will  need,  dear  love, 

To  brave  the  life-battle  with  me  : 
For  your  true  heart  may  oftentimes  bleed,  dear  love, 

And  your  sweet  eyes  dim  tearfully. 

Sweet !  know  you  of  gallant  hearts  perishing, — 

The  fine  spirits  that  dumbly  bow  ? 
For  a  little  of  Fortune's  cherishing, 

They  are  breaking  in  agony  now  ! 
And  without  the  sunshine  that  life  needeth, 

Alas  !  Sweet !  for  me  and  for  you  : 
But  little  the  careless  world  heedeth 

For  love  like  ours,  tender  and  true  ! 


1R4 


O,  a  daring  high  soul  you  will  need,  dear  love, 

To  brave  the  life-battle  with  me  : 
For  your  true  heart  may  oftentimes  bleed,  dear  love, 

And  your  sweet  eyes  dim  tearfully. 

Well,  you've  sworn,  I  have  sworn,  God  hath  bound  us, 

In  a  covenant  the  world  shall  not  part ; 
I  have  flung  my  love's  purple  around  us, 

And  you  live  in  each  pulse  of  my  heart ! 
It  may  be  our  name  in  Earth's  story 

Shall  endure  when  we  are  no  more  ; 
For  love  lives  as  the  Stars  burn  in  glory, 

And  the  Flowers  bud  on  Earth's  green  floor. 
But  a  daring  high  soul  you  will  need,  dear  love, 

To  brave  the  life-battle  with  me  : 
For  your  true  heart  may  oftentimes  bleed,  dear  love, 

And  your  sweet  eyes  dim  tearfully. 


ANATHEMA   MARANATHA. 

DEEPER  and  deeper  the  Tyrant's  lash  flayeth, 
Swifter  and  swifter  grim  Misery  slayeth  ; 
Tighter  and  tighter  the  grip  of  Toil  groweth, 
Nearer  and  nearer  the  dark  Ruin  floweth. 


185 


And  still  ye  bear  on,  and  ye  faint  heart  and  breath, 
Till  ye  creep,  scourged  hounds,  to  your  kennel  of  death  : 
O  down  to  the  dust  with  ye,  cowards  and  slaves, 
Plague-stricken  cumber-grounds,  slink  to  your  graves  1 

Love  is  the  crown  of  all  life,  but  ye  wear  it  not  ; 
Freedom,  Humanity's  palm,  and  ye  bear  it  not  ; 
Beauty  spreads  banquet  for  all,  but  ye  share  it  not  ; 
Grimmer  the  blinding  veil  glooms,  and  ye  tear  it  not. 
Weaving  your  life  flowers  in  Wrong's  robe  of  glory, 
Ye  stint  in  your  starkness  with  hearts  smitten  hoary  : 
0  down  to  the  dust  with  ye,  cowards  and  slaves, 
Plague-stricken  cumber-grounds,  slink  to  your  graves  ! 

They  have  broken  our  hearts  for  their  hunger,  and  trod 
The  wine-press  for  Death,  with  the  grapes  of  our  God  ; 
And  ye  lick  their  feet,  red  with  your  blood,  like  dumb 

cattle  : 

Ah  !  better  and  braver  to  meet  them  in  battle  ! 
The  bow  that  Tell  drew  hath  lost  none  of  its  spring, 
But  ye  nerve  not  with  daring  the  arrow  and  string  : 
Then  down  to  the  dust  with  ye,  cowards  and  slaves, 
Plague-stricken  cumber-grounds,  slink  to  your  graves  ! 

There's  a  curse  on  the  Mammonites  fiery  and  fell, 
Gold  turns  their  hard  hearts  into  hearthstones  for  hell ; 
And  there's  wringing  of  hands  with  the  Knave  and  the 

Tyrant, 
For  God's  graven  autograph's  on  their  death-warrant, 


180 


While  lordlier  manhood  'neath  Freedom's  heart  yearnetli, 
Up  now  !  while  before  ye  the  fire-pillar  burneth  ! 
Or  down  to  the  dust  with  ye,  cowards  and  slaves, 
Down,  down  for  ever,  and  slink  to  your  graves  I 


THE  LORDS  OF  LAND  AND  MONEY 

SONS  of  Old  England,  from  the  sod, 

Up-lift  the  noble  brow  ! 
Gold  apes  a  mightier  power  than  God, 

And  wealth  is  worshipt  now  ! 
In  all  these  toil-ennobled  lands 

Ye  have  no  heritage  : 
They  snatch  the  fruit  of  youthful  hands, 

The  staff  from  weary  age. 
0  tell  them  in  their  Palaces, 

These  lords  of  Land  and  Money  1 
They  shall  not  kill  the  poor  like  bees, 

To  rob  them  of  Life's  honey. 

Thro'  long  dark  years  of  blood  and  tears, 
We've  toil'd  like  branded  slaves, 

Till  Wrong's  red  hand  hath  made  a  land 
Of  paupnrs,  prisons,  graves  ! 


187 

But  our  long-sufferance  endetb  now, 

"Within  the  souls  of  men 
The  fruitful  buds  of  promise  blow, 

And  Freedom  lives  again  ! 
0  tell  them  in  their  Palaces, 

These  Lords  of  Land  and  Money  1 
They  shall  not  kill  the  poor  like  bees, 

To  rob  them  of  Life's  honey. 

Too  long  have  Labour's  nobles  knelt 

Before  exalted  "  Rank  ;" 
Within  our  souls  the  iron  is  felt — 

We  hear  our  fetters  clank  ! 
A  glorious  voice  goes  throbbing  forth 

From  millions  stirring  now, 
Who  yet  before  these  Gods  of  earth 

Shall  stand  with  unblencht  brow. 
O  tell  them  in  their  Palaces, 

These  Lords  of  Land  and  Money  ! 
They  shall  not  kill  the  poor  like  bees, 

To  rob  them  of  Life's  honey. 


188 


LITTLE  LILYBELL. 

WHEN  unseen  fingers  part  the  leaves, 

And  show  us  Beauty's  face  ; 
And  Earth  her  breast  of  glory  heaves 

And  glows  from  Spring's  embrace  : 
When  Flowers  on  green  and  golden  wings 

Float  up — Life's  sea  cloth  swell 
And  flush  a  world  of  vernal  things, — 

Came  little  Lilybell. 

And  like  a  blessed  Bird  of  calm 

Our  love's  sweet  wants  she  stilled, 
Made  Passion's  fiery  wine  run  balm, — 

Life's  glory  half  fulfilled  ! 
From  dappled  dawn  to  twinkling  dark, 

This  witching  Ariel 
Fills  all  our  heaven :  or  like  a  Lark 

Sings  little  Lilybell. 

And  she  is  fair,  0  very  fair, — 

Has  eyes  so  like  the  dove  ! 
And  lightly  leans  her  world  of  care 

Upon  our  arms  of  love  ! 


189 

It  cannot  be  that  ye  will  break 

The  promise-tale  ye  tell, 
Ye  will  not  make  such  fond  hearts  ache, 

0  little  Lilybell  ! 

As  on  Life's  stream  her  leaflets  spread, 

And  tremble  in  its  flow, 
We  shudder,  lest  the  awful  Dead 

Pluck  at  her  from  below  ! 
Breathe  softly  low,  ye  Winds  that  start, — 

O  stream,  but  faintly  swell  : 
Your  every  motion  smites  the  heart, 

For  little  Lilybell. 

We  tremble  :  lest  the  angel  Death, 

Who  comes  to  gather  flowers 
For  Paradise — at  her  sweet  breath, 

Should  fall  in  love  with  ours  1 
O  many  a  year  may  come  and  go 

Ere  from  Life's  mystic  well 
Such  stream  shall  flow — such  flower  shall  blow, 

As  our  sweet  Lilybell. 

Oh  !  when  thy  dear  heart  fills  with  fears, 
And  aches  with  Love's  sweet  pain, 

And  pale  cheeks  burn  thro'  happy  tears 
Like  red  Rose  in  the  rain — 


190 

I  marvel  Sweet !  if  we  shall  see 
The  sight  and  say  'tis  well, 

When  the  Beloved  calls  for  thee, 
Our  dainty  Lilybell  ? 

How  rich  Love  made  the  lowly  sod 

Where  such  a  Flower  hath  blown  ! 
O  Love,  we  love,  and  think  that  God 

Is  such  a  love  full-grown  ! 
Dear  God,  that  gave  the  blessed  trust, 

Be  near,  that  all  be  well, 
And  morn  and  eve  bedew  our  dust, 

For  love  of  Lilybell. 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING-RING, 

WITH  a  white  hand  like  a  lady, 
And  a  heart  as  merry  as  Spring, 

I  am  ripe  and  I  am  ready 
For  a  golden  wedding-ring. 

As  the  earth  with  sea  is  bounded, 
And  the  Winter-world  with  Spring, 

So  a  Maiden's  life  is  rounded 
With  a  golden  wedding-ring. 


191 

This  old  world  is  scarce  worth  seeing, 
Till  Love  waves  his  purple  wing, 

And  we  gauge  the  bliss  of  being, 
Thro'  a  golden  wedding-rimg. 

Would  you  draw  far  Edens  nearer 
And  to  Earth  the  angels  bring, 

You  must  seek  the  magic  mirror 
Of  a  golden  wedding-ring. 

I  have  known  full  many  a  Maiden 
Like  a  white  Rose  withering, 

Into  fresh  ripe  beauty  redden 
Thro'  a  golden  wedding-ring. 

Fainting  spirits  oft  grow  fearless, 
Sighing  hearts  will  soar  and  sing, 

Tearful  eyes  will  laugh  out  tearless, 
Thro'  a  golden  wedding-ring. 

There's  no  jewel  so  worth  wearing, 
That  a  Lover's  hands  may  bring, 

There's  no  treasure  worth  comparing 
With  a  golden  wedding-ring. 

As  the  crescent  Moon  rings  golden 
Her  full  beauty  perfecting, 

Woman's  glory  is  unfoklen 
In  a  golden  wedding-ring. 


192 


Ah  !  when  hearts  are  wildly  beating, 
And  when  arms  all  glowing  cling, 

Think  Love's  circle  wants  completing 
With  a  golden  wedding-ring. 


THE  UNBELOVED. 

LIKE  a  tree  beside  the  river 

Of  her  life  that  runs  from  me, 
Do  I  lean  me,  murmuring  ever 

My  fond  love's  idolatry  : 
And  I  reach  out  hands  of  blessing, 

And  I  stretch  out  hands  of  prayer, 
And  with  passionate  caressing, 

Waste  my  life  upon  the  air. 
In  my  ears  the  Syren  river 

Sings,  and  smiles  up  in  my  face  ; 
But  for  ever  and  for  ever 

Runs  from  my  embrace. 

Spring  by  spring,  the  branches  duly 
Clothe  themselves  in  tender  Flower, 

And  for  her  sweet  sake  as  truly 

All  their  fruit  find  fragrance  shower  ; 


193 

But,  the  stream  with  careless  laughter, 

Runs  iu  merry  beauty  by, 
And  it  leaves  me  yearning  after — 

Lone  to  weep,  and  lone  to  die  ! 
In  my  ears  the  Syren  river 

Sings,  and  smiles  up  in  my  face  ; 
But,  for  ever  and  for  ever, 

Runs  from  my  embrace. 

1  stand  'mazed  in  the  moonlight, 

O'er  its  happy  face  to  dream  ! 
I  am  parched  in  the  noonlight, 

By  that  cool  and  brimming  stream  ! 
I  am  dying  by  the  river 

Of  her  life  that  runs  from  me  1 
While  it  sparkles  by  me  ever 

With  its  cool  felicity  ! 
In  my  ears  the  Syren  river 

Sings,  and  smiles  up  in  my  face  ; 
But,  for  ever  and  for  ever, 

Runs  from  my  embrace. 


194 


DESERTED. 

LOVE  came  to  me  in  a  rosy  cloud, 

With  a  golden  glory  kist  ; 
And  caught  me  up,  and  in  heaven  we  rode, 

Till  it  melted  in  mournful  mist. 
Gone  !  gone  !  is  the  light  that  shone, 

With  the  dream  of  my  earlier  day  : 
And  the  wild  winds  moan,  and  alone,  alone, 

I  wander  my  weary  way. 

The  days  come  and  go,  and  the  seasons  roll, — 

In  their  glory  they  pass  me  by  ; 
And  the  lords  of  life  and  the  happy  in  soul 

Walk  under  a  smiling  sky. 
And  the  sweet  springtide  comes  back  to  earth,  o'er 

The  soothed  winter  sea  ; 
But  He  will  return  no  more,  no  more, 

Never  come  back  to  me. 

It  were  better  that  I  lay  sleeping 

With  his  baby  upon  my  breast, 
When  the  weary  have  done  with  their  weeping 

And  the  wretched  are  rockt  to  their  rest. 


195 


The  world  is  a  desolate,  dreary  oue, 
And  full  of  sad  tears  at  best : 

God,  take  back  thy  wandering  weary  one, 
Like  a  wounded  bird  home  to  its  nest. 


LOVE  IN  IDLENESS. 

WE  sit  serenely  'neath  the  Night, 
As  still  as  stars,  with  swift  delight  ; 
In  tears,  that  tell  how  in  Life's  deep 
The  hidden  pearls  of  beauty  sleep  ; 
And  silent,  as  of  sleeping  Seas, 
And  quiet,  as  of  dreaming  Trees  : 
The  river  of  our  bliss  runs  filled, 
Its  faintest  happy  murmur  stilled. 

Upon  my  forehead  rests  thy  palm, 
And  on  my  spirit  rests  thy  calm  : 
I  cannot  see  thy  face,  but  know 
Its  sea  of  rose-bloom  hath  a  glow 
Like  ruby  light :  and  richly  lies 
The  dew  and  shadows  in  thine  eyes  ; 
That  ask  how  they  may  soothliest  bless, 
Like  crvstal-wells  of  tenderness. 


196 

"Warm  fragrance,  like  the  soul  o'  the  South, 
Is  round  thee  ;  and  thy  damask  mouth 
Dissolves  me  in  delicious  death, 
It  doth  so  breathe  ambrosial  breath  ! 
Musk-roses  blowing  in  the  gloom, 
Drop  fragrance  fainting  in  the  room  ; 
And  such  fine  sadness  fills  the  air, 
Ripe  Life  a  bloom  of  dew  doth  wear. 

We  sit,  with  silent  glory  crowned, 
And  Love's  arms  wound  in  amorous  round  ; 
As  on  rich  clouds  of  fragrance  swim 
The  summer  dusk,  so  cool,  and  dim  1 
While  we  our  fields  of  pleasure  reap 
Our  Babes  lie  in  the  wood  of  Sleep  ; 
One — first  love's  dream  of  beauty  wrought ! 
One — the  more  perfect  after-thought  1 

The  harping  hand  hath  dulled  the  lyre 
Of  thrilling  heart-strings.     By  their  fire 
Droopt  low,  the  dreamy  Passions  doze, 
In  large  luxuriance  of  repose. 
I  only  see — that  thou  art  near  ; 
I  only  feel — I  have  thee,  Dear  1 
I  only  hear  thy  throbbing  heart, 
And  know  that  we  can  never  part. 


197 


DOWN  IN   AUSTRALIA. 

QUAFF  a  cup,  and  send  a  cheer  up  for  the  Old  Land  ! 

We  have  heard  the  Reapers  shout, 

For  the  Harvest  going  out, 
"With  the  smoke  of  battle  closing  round  the  bold  Land  : 

And  our  message  shall  be  hurled 

Up  the  ringing  sides  o'  the  world, 
There  are  true  hearts  beating  for  you  in  the  Gold  Land. 

We  are  with  you  in  your  battles,  brave  and  bold  Land  ! 

For  the  old  ancestral  tree 

Striketh  root  beneath  the  sea, 
And  it  beareth  fruit  of  Freedom  in  the  Gold  Land  I 

We  shall  come  too,  if  you  call, 

We  shall  fight  on  if  you  fall, 
Cromwell's  land  must  never  be  a  bought  and  sold  Land. 


0  the  standard  of  the  Lord  wave  o'er  the  Old  Land  I 
For,  the  waiting  world  holds  breath 
While  she  treads  the  dew  of  Death, 

With  the  sleeve  of  Peace  stript  up  from  her  bare,  bold 
hand  : 


And  her  ruddy  Rose  will  bloom 
On  the  bosom  and  the  tomb 
Of  her  many  Heroes  fallen  for  the  Old  Land. 

0,  a  terror  to  the  Tyrant  is  the  Old  Land  ! 

He  remembers  how  she  stood 

With  her  raiment  rolled  in  blood, 
When  the  tide  of  battle  burst  upon  the  bold  Land, 

And  he  looks  with  darkened  face, 

For  he  knows  the  hero-race 

Sweep  the  harp  of  Freedom — draw  her  Sword  with  bold 
hand. 

Let  thy  glorious  voice  be  heard  thou  great  and  bold  Land  ! 

Speak  the  one  victorious  word, 

And  fair  Freedom's  wandered  Bird 
Shall  wing  back  with  leaf  of  promise  from  the  Old  Land  ! 

And  the  Peoples  shall  come  out 

From  their  slavery,  with  a  shout 
For  the  new  world  greeting  in  the  Future's  Gold  Land. 

When  the  smoke  of  Battle  rises  from  the  Old  Land, 

You  shall  see  the  Tyrant  down, 

You  shall  see  the  ransomed  crown, 
On  the  brow  of  prisoned  peoples,  freed  with  bold  hand  I 

She  shall  thrash  her  foes  like  corn  ; 

They  shall  eat  the  bread  of  scorn, 
And  will  sing  her  song  of  Triumph  in  the  Gold  Land. 


Quaff  a  cup,  and  send  a  cheer  up  from  the  Gold  Land, 
We  have  heard  the  Reapers  shout, 
For  the  harvest  going  out, 

Seen  the  smoke  of  battle  closing  round  the  bold  Land, 
And  our  message  shall  be  hurled 
Up  the  ringing  sides  o'  the  world, 

There  are  true  hearts  down  here,  beating  for  the  Old 
Land 


THE   EXILE   TO   HIS   COUNTRY. 

How  dimmed  is  all  thy  glory,  and  how  dark  the  shadow 

falls  ! 
And  wild  the  sorrow  waileth  thro'  thy  hamlets  and  thy 

halls  ! 

Thy  banner  burns  no  longer  on  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
And  oh  !  the  dead  are  blessed  who  thy  suffering  may  not 

see. 
How   are   thy  brave  ones  scattered  on  many  an  alien 

strand  ! 
Thy  darlings  leal  and  true  to  the  dear  old  Motherland. 

rhey  have  bound  thee  in  the  grave-clothes,  but,  we  watch 

with  tears  and  sighs, 
Till  Freedom  comes  like  Christ,  and  thou  like  Lazarus 

shalt  rise. 


Thy  pale,  pale  face,  iny  Country,  yet  shall  flash  wf'ch  ripei 
ing  blooui, 

As  Nature's  color  kindles  when  the  breath  of  Spring  doth 
come. 

Oh  !  come  thou  Spring  of  promise ;  mighty  Hope,  put  forth 
thy  hand, 

And  build  thy  arch  of  triumph  for  the  dear  old  Mother- 
land. 


The  Birds  that  follow  Summer,  they  come  and  they  depart, 
For  the  Land  of  my  love,  and  the  home  of  my  heart : 
And,  like  a  wounded  Bird,  my  spirit  trembles  in  the  windf 
And  flutters  down  :  and  they  are  gone  and  I  am  left 

behind  ! 

O  my  Dovelets  in  the  net !  O  the  spoiler's  bloody  hand  ! 
And  I  so  far  away  from  the  dear  old  Motherland. 


Sometimes  when  life  is  darkest,  a  glory  bursts  its  glooms, 
As  Lightning  thro'  the  startled  night,  the  face  of  things 

illumes  ; 

A  sudden  splendour  smites  me,  and  ere  the  thunders  roll, 
I  see  thy  face  look  radiant  thro'  the  darkness  of  my  soul ! 
And  thou  art  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Freedom,  great  and 

grand, 

Thy  children  happy  in  thy  smile,  thou  dear  old  Mother- 
land. 


201 


O  thou  among  the  nations,  for  thy  might  shalt  yet  be 

theined, 

Thy  fatal  curse  of  Beauty  by  Love's  blessing  all  redeemed  ! 
The  red  wouuds  where  they  pierced  thee,  shall  to  scars  of 

glory  turn, 
And  in  thy  tearful  eyes  the  light  of  boundless  life  shall 

burn  ! 
The  heavens  are  filled  with  Martyrs,  but  the  earth  still 

holds  a  band 
Who  meet  in  battle  yet  for  the  dear  old  Motherland. 

Oh  !  many  are  the  gallant  hearts  will  never  answer  when 

Thy  clarion-cry  shall  call  us  up  to  the  field  again  ! 

And  many  are  the  tears  must  fall,  and  prayers  go  up  to 

God, 
But  swift  the  vintage  ripens,  and  the  winepress  shall  be 

trod  ! 
The  Harvest  reddens  rich  for  death  !  the  Reapers  clench 

the  hand, 
And  Victory  comes  to  wed  his   bride,  thou   dear   old 

Motherland. 


202 


THE  DESERTER  FROM  THE  CAUSE. 

HE  is  gone  :   better  so.     We  should  know  who  stand 
under 

Our  Banner  :  let  none  but  the  trusty  remain  ! 
For  there's  stern  work  at  hand,  and  the  time  comes  shall 
•   sunder 

The  shell  from  the  pearl,  and  the  chaff  from  the  grain  ! 
And  the  heart  that  thro'  danger  and  death  will  be  dutiful — 

Soul  that  with  Cranmer  in  fire  would  shake  hands  ; 
With  a  Life,  like  a  palace-home  built  for  the  Beautiful ; 

Freedom  of  all  her  Beloved  demands  ! 


He  is  gone  from  us  !     Yet  shall  we  march  on  victorious, 

Hearts  burning  like  Beacons — eyes  fixt  on  the  Goal  1 
And  if  we  fall  fighting,  we  fall  like  the  Glorious  ; 

With  face  to  the  Stars,  and  all  heaven  in  the  soul  ! 
And  aye  for  the  brave  stir  of  battle  we'll  barter 

The  sword  of  life  sheatht  in  the  peace  of  the  grave  : 
And  better  the  fieriest  fate  of  the  Martyr, 

Than  live  like  the  Coward,  and  die  like  the  Slave  1 


203 


THi'.f    ARE    BUT    GIANTS    WHILE    WE 
KNEEL. 

GOOD  People  !  put  no  faith  in  Kings,  nor  in  your  Princes 

trust, 
Who  break  your  hearts  for  bread,  and  grind  your  faces  in 

the  dust ! 
The  Palace  Paupers  look  from  lattice  high  and  mock  your 

prayer  : 
The  Champions  of  the  Christ  are  dumb,  or  golden  bit  they 

wear  ! 
O  but  to  see  ye  bend  no  more  to  earth's  crime-cursed 

things — 
Ye  are  God's  Oracles  :  stand  forth  !  be  Nature's  Priests 

and  Kings  ! 
Ye  fight  and  bleed,   while  Fortune's  darlings   slink   iu 

splendid  lair  ; 
With  lives  that  crawl,  like  worms  through  buried  Beauty's 

golden  hair  ! — 
A  tale  of  lives  wrung  out  in  tears  their  Grandeur's  garb 

reveals, 

And  the  last  sobs  of  breaking  hearts  sound  in  "heir  Cha- 
riot-wheels ! 


0  league   ye — crush  the  things  that  kill  all  love  and 

liberty  ! 
They  are  but  Giants  while  we  kneel :  ONE  LEAP,  AND  UP 

GO  WE. 


Trust  not  the  Priests,  their  tears  are  lies,  their  hearts  are 

hard  and  cold  ; 
They  lead  ye  to  sweet  pastures,  where  they  fleece  the 

foolish  fold  ! 
The  Church  and  State  are  linkt  and  sworn  to  desolate  the 

land. 
Good  people,  'twixt  these  Foxes'  tails,  We'll  fling  a  fiery 

brand  ! 

Up,  if  ye  will  be  free,  to  golden  calves  no  longer  bow  : 
The   Nations  yearn   for  liberty — the   world   is   earnest 

now  ! 
Your  bent-knee  is  half-way  to  hell ! — Up,  Serviles,  from 

the  dust  1 

The  Harvest  of  the  free  red-ripens  for  the  sickle-thrust. 
They're  quaking  now,  and  shaking  now,  who've  wrought 

the  hurtling  sorrow, 

To-day  the  desolators,  but  the  desolate  To-morrow  ! 
Loud  o'er  their  murder's  menace  wakes  the  watchword  of 

the  Free  : 
They  are  but  Giants  while  we  kneel  ;  ONE  LEAP,  AND  UP 

GO  WE  ! 


some  bravest  patriot-hearts  have  gone,  to  break  beyond 

the  Sea. 

And  many  in  the  dungeon  have  died  for  you  and  me  1 
And  still  we  glut  the  Merciless — give  all  Life's  glory 

up, 
That  stars  of  flame,  and  winking  eyes,  may  crown  their 

revel-cup  ! 
Back,   tramplers   on    the    Many  !     Death    and   Danger 

ambusht  lie  ; 

Beware  ye,  or  the  blood  may  run  !  the  patient  people  cry  ; 
Ah  !  shut  not  out  the  light  of  hope,  or  we  may  blindly 

dash. 
Like  Samson  in  his  strong  death-grope,  and  whelm  ye  iu 

the  crash  ; 
Think  how  they  spurned  the  People  mad,  that  old  Regime 

of  France, 
Whose  heads  like  poppies  from  Death's  Scythe  fell  in  a 

bloody  dance. 
Ye  plead  in  vain,  ye  bleed  in  vain,  ah  1  Blind !  when  will 

ye  see 
They  are  but  Giants  while  we  kneel  ?    ONE  LEAP,  AND  UP 

GO  WE. 


The    merry   flowers   are   springing    from   our   last-year 

Martyrs'  mould, 
As  their  dreams  had  taken  blossom   telling  what  they 

would  hiive  told  ; 


206 


Of  all  our  rainbowed  Future  ;  and  what  this  earth  shall 

be, 
When  we  have  bartered  blows  and  bonds  for  life  and 

liberty. 

Ah  !  what  a  face  of  glory  shall  the  weary  world  put  on, 
When  Love  is  crowned,  and  shall  king  the  heart  its  royal 

throne  ! 
0  we  shall  see  our  darlings  smile, — who  meet  us  tearful 

now, — 
Ere  the  Eternal  morn  breaks  grey,   on  the  Beloved's 

brow  : 
And  Love  shall  give  the  kiss  of  Death  no  more  to  those 

we  love, 

And  pride,  not  shame,  shall  flush  the  face  of  our  heart- 
nestling  Dove. 
House,  Titans,  scale  th'  Olympus  where  the  hindering 

Tyrants  be  : 
They  are  but  Giants  while  we  kneel  ;  ONE  LEAP,  AND  UP 

GO  WE. 


207 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  UNEMPLOYED. 

'Tis  bard,   'tis  hard  to  wander  on  through  this  bright 

world  of  ours, 

Beneath  a  sky  of  smiling  blue,  on  velvet  paths  of  flowers, 
With  music  in   the  woods,  as  there  were   nought   but 

joyance  known, 
Or  Angels  walkt  earth's  solitudes,  and  yet  with  want  to 

groan, 

To  see  no  beauty  in  the  stars,  nor  in  God's  radiant  smile, 
To  wail  and  wander   misery-curst  !    willing,  but  cannot 

toil. 
There's   burning   sickness    at    my   heart,    I   sink    down 

famished  ! 
God  of  the  wretched,  hear  my  prayer  :  I  would  that  I  were 

dead  ! 

Heaven  dropped  down  with  manna  still  in  many  a  golden 

show'r, 
And  feeds  the  leaves  with  fragrant  breath,  with  silver  dew 

the  flow'r. 
There's  honeyed  fruit  for  bee  and  bird,  with  bloom  laughs 

out  the  tree, 
And  food  for  all  God's  happy  things  ;  but  none  gives  food 

to  me. 


Earth,  deckt  with  Plenty's  garland-crown,  smiles  on  my 

aching  eye, 
The  purse-proud, — swathed   in   luxury — disdainful   pass 

me  by  ; 
I've  eager  hands,  and  earnest  heart — but  may  not  work 

for  bread ! 
God  of  the  wretched,  hear  my  prayer  ;  I  would  that  I  were 

dead  ! 


Gold,  art  thou  not  a  blessed  thing  :  a  charm  above  all 

other, 
To  shut  up  hearts  to  Nature's  cry,  when  brother  pleads 

with  brother  ? 

Hast  thou  a  music  sweeter   than   the   voice   of  loving- 
kindness  ? 
No  !  curse  thee,  thou'rt  a  mist  'twixt  God  and  man  in 

outer  blindness. 
"  Father,  come  back  !"  my  children  cry  ;    their  voices, 

once  so  sweet, 
Now  quiver  lance-like  in  my  bleeding  heart  1   I  cannot 

meet 
The  looks  that  make  the  brain  go  mad,  for  dear  ones 

asking  bread — 
God  of  the  wretched,  hear  my  prayer  :  I  would  that  I  were 

dead  1 


209 


Lord  !  what  right  have  the  poor  to  wed  ?    Love's  for  the 

gilded  great  : 
Are  they  not  forra'd  of  nobler  clay,  who  dine  off  golden 

plate  ? 

'Tis  the  worst  curse  of  Poverty  to  have  a  feeling  heart : 
Why  can  I  not,  with  iron-grasp,  tear  out  the  tender  part  ? 
I  cannot  slave  in  yon  Bastille  !  ah  no  'twere  bitterer  pain, 
To  wear  the  Pauper's  iron  within,  than  drag  the  Convict's 

chain. 
I'd  work  but  cannot,  starve  I  may,  but  will  not  beg  for 

bread  : 
God  of  the  wretched,  hear  my  prayer  :  I  would  that  I 

were  dead  ! 


I  LOVE  MY  LOVE,  AND  MY  LOVE  LOVES 
ME- 

THE  life  of  life's  when  for  another  we're  living, 

Whose  spirit  responds  to  ours  like  a  sweet  Psalter  ; 

When   heart-smiles   are   burning,   and   flame-words  out- 
giving 
The  fire  we  have  lit  on  her  heart's  holy  Altar  ! 

0  Love,  God's  religion  1  Love,  burning  and  starried  ! 
The  soul  must  be  beautiful  where  thou  art  palaced  ; 

1  mark  where  thy  kiss-seal  is  set  on  the  forehead, 


210 


I  know  where  thy  dew  of  heaven's  richliest  chaliced. 
That  radiant  brow  breaketh  thro'  cloud  and  world-stain, 

And  strong  is  that  soul  in  the  battle  of  Duty  ; 
Smiling  May-sunshine  thro'  Life's  Winter-rain, 

All  outer  things  clothing  with  inner-world  beauty  ! 
'Tis  writ  in  the  face,  whose  heart  singeth  for  glee, 
"  I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me." 

Once  I  was  a-weary  of  life  and  the  world, 

And  the  voice  of  Delight  on  my  heart  fell  accurst, 
And  my  eyes  oft  with  tear-drops  umveetingly  pearl'd, 

I  had  no  one  to  love,  tho'  with  love  my  heart  burst  : 
Then  on  me  a  sweet  dream  of  Paradise  stole — 

Turn'd  to  radiance  the  shadows  that  brooded  around  me  ; 
And  walking  the  gardens  that  Eden  my  soul, 

One  morning,  my  Love,  like  another  Eve,  found  me  : 
She  lookt,  and  a  maelstrom  of  joy  whirled  my  bosom  ; 

She  smiled,  and  my  being  ran  bliss  to  the  brim  : 
She  spake,  and  my  eager  heart  flusht  into  blossom  ; 

Dear  Heaven  !   'twas  the  music  set  to  my  Life's  hymn  ! 
And  up  went  my  soul  to  God,  shouting  for  glee — 
"  I  love  ray  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me." 

I  know,  Love  of  mine  !  time  may  nevermore  bring 
Back  the  lost  freshness  that  clad  my  young  heart  : 

But,  looking  on  thee,  dear  !  sweet  thoughts  will  up-spring, 
As  from  the  cold  tomb  the  green  verdure  will  start  ! 


211 


1  look  in  thine  eyes,  and,  0  joy  to  the  weeper  ! 

Their  love-light  makes  sunshine  of  all  my  dark  fears  ; 
And  what  made  my  heart  faint,  lifts  it  now,  a  strong 

leaper  ! 

And  rivers  of  bliss  flood  its  channels  of  tears. 
I  had  deeni'd  its  wealth  flung  on  sands  barren  and  burning, 

And  sweet  't  is  to  find  my  Life's  current  again, 
Caught  up  in  thy  Love's  precious  chalice — returning 
Like  dew  that  hath  been  to  heaven,  dropping  in  rain. 
And  my  heart's  perpetual  hymn  shall  be, 
"  I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me." 


THE  THREE  VOICES. 

A  WAILING  voice  comes  up  a  desolate  road, 

Drearily,  drearily,  drearily  ! 
Where  mankind  have  trodden  the  by-way  of  blood, 

Wearily,  wearily,  wearily  ! 

Like  a  sound  from  the  Dead  Sea  all  shrouded  in  glooms, 
With  breaking  of  hearts,  fetters  clanking,  men  groan- 
ing ; 

Or  chorus  of  Ravens,  that  croak  among  tombs, 
It  comes  with  the  mournfullest  moaning  : 


212 


"  Weep,  weep,  weep  !" 
Yoke-fellows,  listen, 
Till  tearful  eyes  glisten  : 

'T  is  the  voice  of  the  Past  :  the  dark,  grim-featured  Past, 
All  sad  as  the  shriek  of  the  midnight  blast  : 

Weep,  weep,  weep, 
Tears  to  wash  out  the  red,  red  stain, 

Where  earth  hath  been  fatted 
By  brave  hearts  that  rotted, 
And  life  ran  a  deluge  of  hot,  bloody  rain  : 
Weep,  weep,  weep. 


Another  voice  comes  from  the  millions  that  bend, 

Tearfully,  tearfully,  tearfully  ! 
From  hearts  which  the  scourges  of  Slavery  rend, 

Fearfully,  fearfully,  fearfully  ! 
From  many  a  worn,  noble  spirit  that  breaks, 

In  the  world's  solemn  shadows  adown  in  Life's  valleys, 
From  Mine,  Forge,  and  Loom,  trumpet-tongued  it  awakes, 
On  the  soul  wherein  Liberty  rallies  : 

"Work,  work,  work." 
Yoke-fellows,  listen, 
Till  earnest  eyes  glisten  : 

'T  is  the  voice  of  the  Present.     It  bids  us,  my  brothers, 
Be  Freemen  :  and  then  for  the  freedom  of  others 
Work,  work,  work  ! 


213 


For  the  Many  a  holocaust  long  to  the  Few  : 

0  work  while  ye  may  ! 

O  work  while  't  is  day  ! 
And  cling  to  each  other,  united  and  true  : 
Work,  work,  work. 

There  cometh  another  voice  sweetest  of  all, 

Cheerily,  cheerily,  cheerily  ! 
And  my  heart  leapeth  up  at  its  glorious  call, 

Merrily,  merrily,  merrily  ! 
It  comes  like  the  soft  touch  of  Spring-tide,  un-warping 

The  thrall  of  oppression  that  bound  us  : 
It  comes  like  a  choir  of  the  Seraphim,  harping 
Their  gladsomest  music  around  us  : 
"  Hope,  hope,  hope  !" 
Yoke-fellows,  listen, 
Till  gleeful  eyes  glisten  : 

'T  is  the  voice  of  the  Future,  the  sweetest  of  all, 
That  makes  the  heart  leap  to  its  glorious  call. 

Hope,  hope,  hope  ! 

Brothers,  step  forth  in  the  Future's  van, 
For  the  worst  is  past, 
Right  conquers  at  last, 

And  the  better  day  dawns  upon  suffering  man  : 
Hope,  hope,  hope. 


214 


THE  WORKER. 

1  CARE  not  a  curse  though  from  birth  he  inherit 

The  tear-bitter  bread  and  the  stingings  of  scorn, 
If  the  man  be  but  one  of  God's  nobles  in  spirit, — 

Though   penniless,   richly  soul'd, — heartsome,  though 

worn — 
And  will  not  for  golden  bribe  lout  it  or  flatter, 

But  clings  to  the  Right  aye,  as  steel  to  the  pole  : 
He  may  sweat  at  the  plough,  loom,  or  anvil,  no  matter, 

I'll  own  him  the  man  that  is  dear  to  my  soul. 

His  hand  may  be  hard,  and  his  raiment  be  tatter'd, 

On  straw-pallet  nightly  his  weary  limbs  rest  ; 
If  his  brow  wear  the  stamp  of  a  spirit  unfetter'd, 

I'm  mining  at  once  for  the  gems  in  his  breast. 
Give  me  the  true  man,  who  will  fear  not  nor  falter, 

Though  Want  be  his  guerdon,  the  Workhouse  his  goal, 
Till  his  heart  has  burnt  out  upon  Liberty's  Altar : 

For  this  is  the  man  I  hold  dear  to  my  soul. 

True  hearts,  in  this  brave  world  of  blessings  and  beauty. 

Aye  scorn  the  poor  splendour  of  losel  and  lurker  ; 
And  Toil  is  creation's  crown,  worship  is  duty, 

And  greater  than  Gods  in  old  days  is  the  "Worker. 


215 


For  us  the  wealth-laden  world  labourcth  ever  ; 

For  us  harvests  ripen,  winds  blow,  waters  roll  ; 
And  him  who  gives  back  in  his  might  of  endeavour, 

I'll  cherish, — a  man  ever  dear  to  my  soul. 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

0  SWEET  is  the  fair  face  of  Nature,  when  Spring 

With  living  flower-rainbow  in  glory  hath  spanu'd 
Hill  and  dale  ;  and  the  music  of  birds  on  the  wing 

Makes  earth  seem  a  beautiful  faery  land  ! 
And  dear  is  our  first-love's  young  spirit-wed  bride, 

With  her  meek  eyes  just  sheathing  in  tender  eclipse, 
When  the  sound  of  our  voice  calls  her  heart's  ruddy  tide, 

Uprushing  in  beauty  to  melt  on  her  lips. 
But  Earth  has  no  sight  half  so  glorious  to  see, 
As  a  People  up-girding  its  might  to  be  free. 

To  see  men  awake  from  the  slumber  of  ages, 

With  brows  grim  from  labour,  and  hands  hard  and  tan, 

Start  up  living  heroes,  the  dreamt-of  by  Sages  ! 
And  smite  with  strong  arm  the  oppressors  of  man  : 


216 


To  see  them  come  dauntless  forth  'mid  the  world's  warring, 
Slaves  of  the  midnight-mine  !  serfs  of  the  sod  ! 

Show  how  the  Eternal  within  them  is  stirring, 
And  never  more  bend  to  a  crowned  clod  : 

Dear  God  !  'tis  a  sight  for  Immortals  to  see, — 

A  People  up-girding  its  might  to  be  free. 

Battle  on  bravely,  0  sons  of  humanity  ! 

Dash  down  the  cup  from  your  lips,  0  ye  Toilers  I 
Too  long  hath  the  world  bled  for  Tyrants'  insanity — 

Too  long  our  weakness  been  strength  to  our  spoilers. 
For  Freedom  and  Right,  gallant  hearts,  wrestle  ever, 

And  speak  ye  to  others  the  proud  word  that  won  ye  : 
Your   rights   conquer'd  once,  shall  be  wrung  from  you 
never  ; 

0  battle  on  bravely  ;  the  world's  eyes  are  on  ye  ; 
And  Earth  hath  no  sight  half  so  glorious  to  see, 
As  a  People  up-girding  its  might  to  be  free  ! 


PRESS   ON. 

PRESS  on,  press   on,  ye  Rulers,  in   the   roused  world's 

forward  track  : 
It  moves  too  sure  for  ye  to  put  the  clock  of  Freedom 

back  ! 


21' 


We're  gathering  ujj  from  near  and  far,  with  souls  in  fiery 

glow, 
And  Right  doth  bare  its  arm  of  might,  to  bring  the  spoilers 

low, 
Kings,  Priests,  ye're  far  too  costly,  and  we  weary  of  your 

rule  ; 
We  crown  no  more  "  Divinity,''  where  Nature  writeth 

"  Fool !" 

Ye  must  not  bar  our  glorious  path  as  in  the  days  agorie  ; 
We  know  that  God  made  Men,  not  Princes,  Kings,  or 

Priests. — Press  on  ! 

Press  on,  press  on,  ah  !    "  Nobles  !)7  ye  have  play'd  a 

daring  game  ; 
But  your  star  of  strength  is  failing,  fades  the  prestige  of 

your  name  : 
Too  long  have  ye  been  fed  and  nurst  on  human  blood  and 

tears  ; 
The  naked  truth  is  known,  and  Labour  leaps  to  life,  and 

swears 
His  pride  of  strength  to  bloated  Ease  he  will  no  longer 

give  : 
For  all  who  live  should  labour  ;  "  Lords,"  then  all  who 

work  might  live  ! 
The  combat  comes  1  make  much  of  what  ye've  wrung 

from  Fatherland  ! 
Press  on,  press  on  !  To-day  we  plead,  To-morrow  we'll 

command. 

10 


218 


Press  on  1  a  million  pauper-foreheads  bend  in  Misery's 

dust ; 
God's  champions  of  the  golden  Truth  still  eat  the  mouldy 

crust  : 
This  damning  curse  of  Tyrants  must  not  kill  the  nation's 

heart ; 

The  spirit  in  a  million  Slaves  doth  pant  on  fire  to  start, 
And  strive  to  mend  the  world,  and  walk  in  Freedom's 

march  sublime  ; 
While    myriads    sink   heart-broken,  and   the   land   o'er- 

swarms  with  crime. 
"  O  God  !"  they  cry,  "  we  die,  we  die,  and  see  no  earnest 

won !" 
Brothers,  join  hand  and  heart,  and  in  the  work  press  on, 

press  on  1 


MERRY   CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

MERRY  Christmas  Eve  !  in  the  Palace  where  knavery 

Crowds  all  the  treasures  the  fair  world  can  render  ; 
Where  spirits  grow  rusted  in  silkenest  slavery, 

And  life  is  out-panted,  in  sloth,  and  in  .splendour  ; 
In  gladness  and  glory,  Wealth's  darlings  were  meeting, 

And  jewel-claspt  fingers  linkt  softly  again  ; 
New  friendships  were  twining,  and  old  friends  were  greeting, 

And  twin  hearts  grew  one,  in  God's  golden  love-chain 


Merry  Christmas  Eve  !  iu  a  poor  man's  griin  hovel, 

There  huddled  in  silence  a  famishing  family  ; 
Church-bells  were  laughing  in  musical  revel, 

They  heard  the  loud  mockery,  withnbrows  throbbing 

clammily  ; 
All  in  the  merry  time  there  they  sat,  mourning — 

Two  sons — two  brothers — in  penal  chains  bleeding  ; 
Their  hearts  wandered  forth  to  the  never-returning, 

Who  rose  on  their  vision,  pale,  haggard,  and  pleading. 

Merry  Christmas  Eve  !  for  the  rich,  as  in  duty, 

Taste  pander'd  and  ruby  wine  woo'd  on  the  board, 
Eyes  smiled  in  feign'd  glory,  on  birth,  and  on  beauty  ; 

And  lying  lips  flatter'd  the  Mammouite  lord. 
Love-kisses  sobb'd  out,  'twixt  the  rollic  and  rout, 

And  Hope  went  forth,  reaping-in  long-promist  treasure. 
What  matter,  tho'  hearts  might  be  breaking  without  ? 

Their  groans  were  unheard  in  the  palace  of  pleasure. 

Merry  Christmas  Eve  !  but  the  stricken  ones  heard 

No  neighbourly  welcome,  no  kind  voice  of  kin  ; 
They  lookt  at  each  other,  but  spake  not  a  word, 

While  through  crevice,  and  cranny,  the  sleet  drifted  in, 
In  a  desolate  corner,  one,  hunger-kill'd,  lay, 

And  the  mother's  hot  tears  were  tho  bosom-babe's  food 
What  marvel,  0  Statesmen,  what  marvel,  I  pray, 

Such  misery  nurseth  Crime's  dark  viper-brood  ? 


220 


O  men,  angel-imaged  in  Nature's  fair  mint, 

And  is  it  for  this,  ye  were  fashioned  divine  ? 
Ah,  where's  the  god-stamp — Immortality's  print  ? 

We  are  tyrants  and  slaves,  knit  in  one  tortured  twine : 
That  a  few,  like  to  gods,  may  stride  over  the  earth, 

Millions,  born  to  heart-murder,  are  given  in  pawn  , 
When  will  the  world  quicken  for  Liberty's  birth, 

Which  she  waiteth,  with  eager  wings  beating  the  dawn  ? 

False  Priest,  dare  ye  say  'tis  the  will  of  your  God 

(And  shroud  the  Christ's  message  in  dark  sophistry), 
That  these  millions  of  paupers  should  bow  to  the  sod  ? 

Up,  up,  trampled  hearts,  it's  a  lie  !  it's  a  lie  1 
They  may  carve    "State"   and  "Altar"  in  characters 
golden, 

But  Tyranny's  symbols  are  ceasing  to  win  ; 
Be  stirring,  O  people,  your  scroll  is  unfolden, 

And  bright  be  the  deeds  ye  emblazon  therein. 


ALL'S  RIGHT  WITH  THE   WOKLD. 

SWEET  Phosphor  tricks  to  a  smile  the  brow  of  heaven, 
Dawn's  golden  springs  surge  into  floods  of  day, 
Lush-leavy  woods  break  into  singing,  Earth 
From  dewy  dark  rolls  round  her  balmy  side, 
And  all  goes  right,  and  merrily,  with  the  world. 


221 


Spring  with  a  tender  beauty  clothes  the  Earth, 
Happy,  and  jewelled  like  a  sumptuous  Bride, 
As  tho'  she  knew  no  sorrow — held  no  grave  : 
No  glory  dims  for  all  the  hearts  that  break, 
And  all  goes  right,  and  merrily,  with  the  world. 

Birds  sing  as  sweetly  on  the  blossoni'd  boughs, 
Suns  mount  as  royally  their  sapphire  throne, 
Stars  bud  in  gorgeous  gloom,  and  harvests  yield, 
As  tho'  man  nestled  in  the  lap  of  Love  : 
All,  all  goes  right,  and  merrily,  with  the  world. 

But  slip  this  silken-folded  mask  aside, 

And  lo,  Hell  welters  at  our  very  feet ! 

The  Poor  are  murder'd  body  and  soul,  the  Rich 

In  Pleasure's  chalice  melt  their  pearl  of  life  I 

Ay,  all  goes  right,  and  merrily,  with  the  world. 

Lean  out  into  the  looming  Future,  mark 
The  battle  roll  across  the  night  to  come  ! 
'  See  how  we  right  our  Wrongs  at  last,"  Revenge 
Writes  with  red  radiance  on  the  midnight  heaven 
Yet,  all  goes  right,  and  merrily,  with  the  world. 

So  Sodom,  grim  old  Reveller  !  went  to  death. 
Voluptuous  Music  throbb'd  thro'  all  her  courts, 


222 


Mirth  wanton'd  at  her  heart,  one  pulse  before 
Fire-tougues  told  out  her  bloody  tale  of  wrong,- 
And  all  went  right,  and  merrily,  with  the  world. 


BRIDAL  SONG. 

GAILY  the  Sun  woos  the  Spring  for  his  Bride 

"With  kisses  all  warm  and  golden  ; 
Till  the  life  at  her  heart  she  no  longer  may  hide, 

And  the  wealth  of  her  lover  is  unfolden. 

With  kisses,  sweet  kisses,  the  mellow  Rains  start 

The  virgin  flowers  a-blossorn : 
And  ripen  their  beauty  till  fragrant  lips  part, 

And  Love's  jewel  gleams  rich  in  their  bosom. 

Faint  with  love  wingeth  the  wantoning  Wind, 
And  yearns  as  its  heart  were  a-breaking, 

And  kisses  sweet  kisses,  till  buds  be  untwined  ; 
And  the  young  leaves  all  are  awaking. 

The  wrinkled  old  Sea  sidles  up  the  sands, 

And  lavishes  kisses  in  showers 
On  the  Earth,  till  the  Grey-beard's  young  darling  stands 

All  dressed  in  her  bridal  flowers  ! 


223 


And  there's  nothing  so  dainty-sweet  in  life 
As  to  kiss  the  Maid,  glowing  and  tender, 

Till  the  heart  of  the  Wife,  giveth  up  in  the  strife, 
Full-flowering  in  Love's  splendour. 


A  CHAUNT.. 

EARTH  like  a  Lover  poor  and  low 
Feasts  on  Night's  queenly  beauty  now  ; 
While  I,  with  burning  heart  and  brow, 

Awake  to  weep  for  thee,  Love  ! 
The  spangled  glories  of  the  Night, 
The  Moon  that  walks  in  soft,  white  light, 
These  cannot  win  my  charmed  sight, 

Or  lure  a  thought  from  thee,  Love  ! 

I'm  thinking  o'er  the  short,  sweet  hour, 

Our  hearts  drank  up  Love's  growth  of  power, 

And  summer'd  as  in  Eden's  bower, 

When  I  was  blest  with  thee,  Love  ! 
There  burn'd  no  beauty  on  the  trees, 
There  woke  no  song  of  birds  or  bees, 
But  Love's  cup  for  us  held  no  lees, 

And  I  was  blest  with  thee,  Love. 


224 

Then  grand  and  golden  fancies  spring 
From  out  my  heart,  on  splendid  wing, 
Like  Chrysalis  from  Life's  wintering — 

Burst  bright  and  surnmeringly,  Love  ! 
And  as  a  Chief  of  battle  lost 
Counts,  and  recounts,  his  stricken  host, 
Stands  tearful  Memory  making  most 

Of  all  that's  toucht  with  thee,  Love. 

Perchance  in  Pleasure's  brilliant  bower 
Thy  heart  may  half  forget  Love's  power, 
But  at  this  still  and  starry  hour 

Does  it  not  turn  to  me,  Love  ? 
0,  by  all  pangs  for  thy  sweet  sake, 
In  my  deep  love  thy  heart-thirst  slake, 
Or,  all-too-full,  my  heart  must  break  : 

Break  !  break  1  with  loving  thee,  Love 


SONG- 

0  LAY  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear  ! 

We're  growing  old,  We're  growing  old  ; 
But  Time  hath  wrought  no  sign,  dear, 

That  hearts  grow  cold,  that  hearts  grow  cold. 


225 

'Tis  long,  long  since  our  new  love 
Made  life  divine,  made  life  divine  ; 

But  age  enricheth  true  love, 

Like  noble  wine,  like  noble  wine, 

0  lay  thy  cheek  to  mine,  dear, 

And  take  thy  rest,  and  take  thy  rest  ; 
Mine  arms  around  thee  twine,  dear, 

And  make  thy  nest,  and  make  thy  nest. 
A  many  cares  are  pressing 

On  this  dear  head,  on  this  dear  head  ; 
But  Sorrow's  hands  in  blessing 

Are  surely  laid,  are  surely  laid, 

0  lean  thy  life  on  mine,  dear  ! 

'Twill  shelter  thee,  'twill  shelter  thee. 
Thou  wert  a  winsome  vine,  dear, 

On  my  young  tree,  on  my  young  tree  : 
And  so,  till  boughs  are  leafless, 

And  Song-birds  flown,  and  Song-birds  flown, 
We'll  twine  ;  then  lay  us,  griefless, 

Together  down,  together  down. 


10* 


226 


ENGLAND  GOES  TO  BATTLE. 

Now,  glory  to  our  England, 

As  she  rises,  calm  and  grand, 
With  the  ancient  spirit  in  her  eyes, — 

The  good  Sword  in  her  hand  ! 
Our  royal  right  on  battle-ground, 

Was  aye  to  bear  the  brunt  : 
Ho  !  brave  heart  !  for  one  passionate  bound, 

And  take  thy  place  in  front  1 
Now  glory  to  our  England, 

As  she  rises,  calm  and  grand, 
With  the  ancient  spirit  in  her  eyes — 

The  good  Sword  in  her  hand  ! 


Who  would  not  fight  for  England  ? 

Who  would  not  fling  a  life 
F  the  ring,  to  meet  a  Tyrant's  gage, 

And  glory  in  the  strife  ? 
Her  stem  is  thorny,  but  doth  burst 

A  glorious  Rose  a-top  ! 
And  shall  our  dear  Rose  wither  ?     First 

We'll  drain  life's  dearest  drop  ! 


227 

Who  would  not  fight  for  England  ? 

Who  would  not  fling  a  life 
F  the  ring,  to  meet  a  Tyrant's  gage, 

And  glory  in  the  strife  ? 

To  battle  goes  our  England, 

All  as  gallant  and  as  gay 
As  Lover  to  the  Altar,  on 

A  merry  marriage-day. 
A  weary  night  she  stood  to  watch 

The  battle-dawn  up-roll'd  ; 
And  her  spirit  leaps  within,  to  match 

The  noble  deeds  of  old. 
To  battle  goes  our  England, 

All  as  gallant  and  as  gay 
As  Lover  to  the  Altar,  on 

A  merry  marriage-day. 


Now,  fair  befall  our  England, 

On  her  proud  and  perilous  road  ; 
And  woe  and  wail  to  those  who  make 

Her  foot-prints  red  with  blood  ! 
Up  with  our  red-cross  banner — roll 

A  thunder-peal  of  drums  I 
Fight  on  there,  every  valiant  soul, 

And  courage  !  England  comes  ! 


228 

Now,  fair  befall  our  England, 
On  her  proud  and  perilous  road  : 

And  woe  and  wail  to  those  who  make 
Her  foot-prints  red  with  blood  ! 

Now,  victory  to  our  England  ! 

And  where'er  she  lifts  her  hand 
In  Freedom's  fight,  to  rescue  Right, 

God  bless  the  dear  Old  Land  ! 
And  when  the  Storm  has  pass'd  away, 

In  glory  and  in  calm, 
May  she  sit  down,  i'  the  green  o'  the  day; 

And  sing  her  peaceful  psalm  1 
Now,  victory  to  our  England  ! 

And  where'er  she  lifts  her  hand 
In  Freedom's  fight,  to  rescue  Right, 

God  bless  the  dear  Old  Land  1 


THE      END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


81 


ID  uw 


Form  L9-32w-8,'58(5876s4)444 


PR 

4984  Massey  = 
M7p Poeijis  ajid 
lads. 


3   1158  00653  3102 


PR 
4984 

M7p 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000376289    5 


BRANCH, 

CALIFOKNfc, 
<Y, 

i.  CALIF. 


m 


